The innocent villain

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I met him, who you laughed at
———————threw pebbles at
————-shockingly mocked at
the utter fool, most intelligent
the blind who’d clear eye-sight
——–the villain, most innocent
the liar who never any lies told
at the mount Cithaeron’s foot.

My presence he’d have felt, but
Uphill he was blankly looking at;
“Had you not tried your own past
You would have kept your post
At least, your clearer eyesight,”
Yet he said his choice’s all right
For the two sins he’d committed
By suffering only he could repay it.

Had he not his life thus sacrificed,
We would’ve this tradition missed.

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Ode to Mothers

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Fruits are so heavy, so boughs bow down,
Yet would the tree make any complaints
That they are too heavy for her tender hips
And shake her darling fruits straight down,
Or would she not let you pick at least one
Claiming she alone not you cared for them?

That mother bird that hangs around her nest
Feeds, bathes and attends to her little ones.
Sure, they will goodbye to her the day after,
Yet would she starve them or trim their wings
So they may remain with her forever, ever?

Trees and all are too heavy for mother earth,
Yet would she moan and groan they are heavy;
She may warn, cane to straight them if crook,
Yet will she uproot them that they’re heavy?

All these mothers remind us Bodhisattvas,
Who sacrifice their lives to care for others,
To make the world that we live in a heaven.

Copyright © July 20, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

To be a little star

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Should I try
to be a big star
among a cluster of stars, and
contest so madly with ‘daggers-drawn’
to shoot some rays of light
but fade away with the sunrise?,
is the question that drones in my ears.

In contrast,
an inner voice insists me
so feebly though,
that trying to be a tiny little star
in a far, densely dark corner of the sky
and then to rain a handful of rains,
breaking the drought of darkness,
and giving life to those flower-hearts,
is what I ought to do.

Similarly, to be a big star
among a cluster of stars,
to contest to shoot some rays of light
and fade away with the sunrise
is not what I’d love to do.

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Doom behind Tomb

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There’s a doom behind every tomb;
Anyway, we don’t see the ugly doom;
We see only the giant, upright tomb.

Let’s look at that lascivious rose plant.
She terribly suffered giving birth to,
And the new life suffered to be born;
However, we see only a pleasant plant,
And a proud rose that tosses her head.

Mother still suffers for rose is too red,
And she attracts earthy worms to bed;
We see this, but we don’t care it a bit.

She is suffering for she is badly hurt;
So is her mother who broke her heart.
Soon, her petals will rot and drop dead;
She’ll then lie while lowering her head;
Mother will still suffer with a new life.

There’s a doom behind every tomb;
Anyway, we don’t see the ugly doom;
We see only the giant, upright tomb.

Copyright © July 18, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Sun dies as anything else

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If I may see, as you do,
Horizontal lines only,
Assuming water’s so shallow,
I’ll forget the distance to sky.

If I may not see, as you do,
Leaves grow grey
And fly straight down,
How so soon they dry
And mix with soil;

If I may not see, as you do,
The dying dews,
How Sun burns rose petals,
And how soon Sun himself
plods wearily down;

If I may see, as you do,
Horizontal lines only,
Assuming water’s so shallow,
I’ll forget the distance to sky.

Copyright © July 17, 2018, Newton Ranaweera

A Review Of This Way To The End – A Book By Mario Savioni —

I loved reading this book. I just find it fascinating, feel wrapped up in it, think, feel and taste every poem and short story which I see as being mainly about the individual’s eternal search for truth and beauty. I think this would be the central topic of the book as we start to read […]

via A Review Of This Way To The End – A Book By Mario Savioni —

Where are you, my love?

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On my couch this winter eve,
I’m lying alone while searching
In the far sky high above
Your image so pleasing,
Presuming it’s hiding there
Though my heart smiles
Knowing it’s a pleasant lie.

Amidst flower rains in spring
When that sweetie my loving
Did come to my hut so poor,
I felt I’d a companion so true
To pass with, the rough paths
In the wilderness of this life.

On a rough summer eve
When she sang songs so sad
Stroking my face thin so bad,
I did find here, there, above,
below and everywhere at least
One sweet song for her to sing.

Fallen dry leaves are scattered
In the compound around my hut;
Spiders’re viewing webs so thick around
my bed that mourns both day and night
and she, leaving only some memories,
has gone a long way away.

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Hermitage of love

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I want you not to make any slightest attempt
To spoil this pure hermitage of two true lovers
Who do constantly lie here in meditative mood
And follow the path that hermits in the past did.

I love not her ever turned up fair round breasts,
But I love her warm heart her breasts ever feed,
So that monkey image you oft, compare her with
Cannot hurt my heart that loves her warm heart;

Nor will I try to own the imagined heavenly dames,
A promise you come with to spoil this sacred place,
So this verse is to save you committing a grave sin
By breaking the meditation, hermits are indulged in.

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Beauty of Night

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Rise the welcome songs
From all four corners
For the light of light;
Farewell songs too rise
From the same corners
For the beauty of night.

The more we see
Light of light,
The less we see
Beauty of night.
If night were not
Intensely thick,
Would light look
So heroic?

Do only night owls
That love beauty of night
Is it not Moon,
your most loved,
That loves most
The beauty of night?

Rise the welcome songs
From all four corners
For the light of light;
Farewell songs too rise
From the same corners
For the beauty of night.

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