What was earlier red
Is now bleeding green.
“What is so sacred about that strip
Where ‘terrorism’ has once been?”. So I asked Dylan as he
Asked me how moustaches made a king. He looked about
Prophetically; said: “Son, it’s all damn blowing in the wind”.
But, that wind which blows, gets hit on the rugged
And bleeding rock, our midland hills
And what is said on the east and northern coasts
Aren’t heard, though to speak them voices wills. After a 60 year hunger
Her blood all drained and smeared; and since they say “peace”,
To have such a map is weird. Such a map, green map,
While the South’s all blue
Should tell us what we have missed
Though they brandished flags
When the airport floors were kissed
And many a muddy foot has walked over that
Spot where the concrete the historical bi-labials touched.
So, did the North feel citizen-ed, as a part of “Sri Lanka” weld
The first post-VP election held? “Mistah Kurtz – he dead”
Said a peeping head. O’ horror. Horror. This prolonging death
Of a piece of venison that’s being torn and tortured,
By the time it is divided would have strained, drained and butchered.
What this land must be bearing, in the name of myth! What
These people are denied! What sighs we are
Yet to imagine!