In 1990, when the mothers, wives
And beloved others of those disappeared and dead,
Candles in hand lit miles and miles of clay oil lamps,
When mass graves were uncovered of those butchered,
Decimated, cut in two and discarded into the ground,
A younger Rajapakshe stood by the horrified crowd.
A younger Rajapakshe — no Gota, no Basil,
All sons, mere cubs —, as half decomposed,
Visible horrors of Torture Camp brutality,
Carried out by paid militants on the whim of
Corroded poli-trickery, patiently watch as once
Mutilated stories emerge of Southern lives lost to Southern guns.
So, today, when mothers, wives, beloved ones have
Stories to tell — stories that are incompetent
As to beg a listener to listen to —
With sub-humanity their de facto status
In a de facto state that is not given as home,
Should tears blot out, for they are Tamilian tears alone?
In that sour divide of who is “Patriot” and not,
The sad truth is that the government has too much left for
Too late to conceal. That they have collected the dead bodies
— While others are still counting the dead — and had
Carried them along with it, covering the gruesome collection with lies.
Now, it takes too much to keep a dead limb from falling, a cracked
Skull from dropping brain, all the while.
And in that lie that is spoken, promoted as truth,
We have been made to be liars, too; and on that is thrown
What the “dignity” of the “nation” they call. Has made
All of us Funeral Directors, and an “enemy” of any person who
Carries a spade. Those highways and concrete layers on which the
“Nation” is made are shallow coatings — unconvincing; just laid.
So, to do what works best with the infirm masses
— To distract (where you can’t force, buy or share) —
All milky CHOGAsMic dancers rock the boat with midriffs bare,
And swirl around and around to the speed of sound
As he sits by Old Charlie’s Chair while Outside, the Opposition’s
Attacked, Channel 4 is hounded: this is why you shouldn’t ever power-share.
Journalists followed and waylaid in the very heart of the week,
— Even in unfamiliar democratic jargon the assembly speaks —
The apple cart being pushed with many turns to negotiate
And each apple that threatens to topple with a halt to compensate.
Everything Channel 4 does, state heads say and questions asked are
Seen as magic and as unreal, as from democracy we are far,
For, by ignorance, blood, iron, lies and small kicks
Are we being ruled: those are our five-fold faith.
As our tragic journalists — the detrius retained —
And uneducated thugs sing songs where the regime is sane.
So, history repeats, first as tragedy; so, now as farce
As the emperor and his new clothes roll in a house of glass.