The dead Buddha on the stairway of the Jaffna library,
Is now back ressurected, he returns now with a vengeance.
Every street corner, every junction, near threewheeler stands
He sits as Sinhala chauvinism shits.
The world’s sweated
Ts dropping in murk coloured drips: The lost souls
Who won a leader, now we need a fucking breather.
Now our corn is weighed, settled,
Our cows are counted, marked: ts the end of a battle
The brazen blacksmith knocks on,
His bench shines with burning brittles,
Where the smoke burns out the chimney
The clouds look brown; ts written, ts taught:
“Long live this island nation”,
Undivided through creation,
The cows are herded indoors. Most of
Devoted Hindus: happy homes behind the fences.
The chill cuts through the lenses; ts smokey, As I said.
Herd is marked near the arsehole: Los GOSL –
Gently Oblige Saint’s Leverage. And
Grace Offers Some Leniency to
Good ‘Ombres who Suck Lethal.
As we are.
So, go in peace and hope my chillun,
In that yond shed lives sunshine,
Hay and a million peaces, moonshine-like
Humble teasers. Sons don’t say to Vishnu Mary and Jesus,
Just lift your tails and show your creases,
Hold em erect and up for the caesar,
Present arms with your horns now – bend them,
Pipe ‘moo’ in soft A-major, they’re all your Lords, no minors,
Despicable monsters – fuck you.
Bloody stateless, friendless, loveless, neckless
Medea – that’s you.
You fucking have no chillun,
Your motherland’s closed behind you.
Where your babes once held out seaming,
No dreams there for your springs to woo to.
No streams there to cup in
The blood that is drained you.
Bower stumbles, ts stamped on,
The minds dead that once trained you.
Buddha dead on the stairway of the Jaffna library,
Is now back ressurected, he returns now, spits with a vengeance.
Been to Kelaniya Nuhman — the message is hoarded:
“This blessed island is Buddha’s land”.
Now, the cattle is herded, taken with care to the indoors,
No show scene for IDPs, instead they screen “Bindu”.
70% at Uva, 67 at the Southern Fort.
“Sure?” said the skeptic joker; “Sure!” the fellows retort.
Ts that some don’t have the choices, where some
Sing songs with their voices. When the ammo
And the last gun is gone, can the maimed spirit still carry on?
For how long, then, for how long
Could the cows’ dung and piss be filled into barrels now wasted
And fill up those holes they’ve drilled; have regent hymns sung,
His body art on streetsides pasted?
I remember Shelley calling out to people
Out of graves for a sepulcher to take by tempest,
Likewise this evil of a wronging nation by lies and bleaching
To tyrants’ ends that tempts us — would those falling tears
After a long 25 years, be enough water to feed that sapling life?
Why blame the believer, if to gun down caesar, that arrogant spirit,
That he used his knife?
Your bridges are burnt – Tamil, don’t look back. Your fences hurt,
Stay caged – don’t shag. Know your real enemy
Now that you’ve come face to face,
Now that your cultural past falls in ashes and ablaze,
Now you face that distant, unknown, unseeming
Masquerade-discarded moustache beaming
And in the water hole where your faces reflect
The unanswered prayers
May the wisdom be brought home:
That your gods are not up there –
New gods rule those reigns – the
Traditional homeland of Tamils.
They ain’t traditional no longer;
They not homelands no more.
Nor are they Tamil — the Tamil’s now
The Sri Lankan government is building peace. It is a process with many steps.