Truth is dark (ඇත්ත අඳුරුයි)

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Truth is dark;
darkness is deep;
surface of darkness
is so serene.

A life of complacent will I live
where only shallowness I’ll see;
without viewing agonizing truth,
I’ll readily clasp luscious falsity.

How can I see truth and justice
when the norm is injustice?
So detaching from harsh truth
I’ll wallow in lie and untruth.

ඇත්ත අඳුරුයි
අඳුර ගැඹුරුයි
ගැඹුර මතුපිට
හරිම සොඳුරුයි.

සොඳුරු දිවියක් ගතකරන්නම්
ගැඹුර නොව මතුපිට බළන්නම්
ගැඹුරු අඳුරට නෙත් නොමා මං
සොඳුරු ඇත්තම නිති දකින්නම්.

ඇත්ත යුක්තිය කුමකටද මට
නැත්ත රජයන රටක් ඇති විට
අුඳුරු ඇත්තෙන් ඈත්වී මං
සොඳුරු බොරුවෙම ගැළෙන්නම්.

Image source: Pixabay

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Truth or Myth?

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Truth is bitter;
is that better
than utter myth,
which is sweeter?

ඇත්ත තිත්තයි
ඒක සත්තයි
බොරුව මිහිරියි
සත්ත ඒකයි.

Image source: Pixabay

We’re poets

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Are you a poet, too,
Heraclitus?

If not, you would not say
one cannot step into a river
he stepped once; it is not
the same river he steps next.

When stepping into it first,
He saw, but you didn’t see,
right under your right foot,
water was mocking at you?

I see, you are a philosopher:
a name for a poet, a lunatic
and a lover who are ‘compact
in imagination’, childlike.

Xanthippe rightly aimed at;
Socrates’ head smelled fishy;
Archimedes with no clothes
ran throughout his city.

Image by Pixabay

Waves of Life (ජීවිතේ රළ වගෙයි )

sea waves Sachin Ranaweera

Waves rise
– waves break;
constantly waves do rise;
bird songs, their chirps
are the rising waves.

We win, but soon we lose;
we lose again, then again,
yet we try again
to win again.
Don’t we fall and rise again
to lose again?

We try to be born;
constantly, we attempt;
waves do rise
and they break
proving life’s uncertainties.

They rise
and then they break
they are the waves of life.

 

රළ නැගෙයි රළ බිඳෙයි
යළි යළිත් රළ නැගෙයි
කුරලු ගී කිචි බිචිය
නැගෙන ඒ රළ වගෙයි
මතුව එයි නැතුව යයි
ජීවිතේ රළ එයයි.

දිනන අපි පරදින්නෙ
යළි යළිත් පරදින්නෙ
එහෙත් යළි ජය ගන්න
අපි නිබඳ දඟළන්නෙ
දඟළමි නැගිටිමින්
අපි නාෙවෙද පරදින්නෙ?

උපදින්න වෙර දරයි
යළි යළිත් වෙර දරයි
නැගෙන ඒ බිඳෙන රළ
නොතිර බව තිර කරයි
මතුව එයි නැතුව යයි
ජීවිතේ රළ එයයි.

Drawing by Sachin Ranaweera

Hidden Disabilities

my hand
He writes but shields his writing
with his left hand,
his right hand’s confidant,
that fights to keep his privacy.

Alone he sighs with deep sighs,
his pen sighs and his hands sigh
while his friends laugh.

His friends, his faithful friends,
some with flashes, aim their cameras
above his shoulders, below his arms,
to see a glimpse of his writing.

He writes, slowly he writes,
with tighten muscles in his hands,
and sighs with deep sighs
while his friends, loyal friends, laugh.

His friends, his loyal friends,
file a case in their circle of court,
and without letting him defend
proclaim their verdict
that he is guilty of deceit and theft.

Alone he sighs with deep sighs,
his pen sighs and his hands sigh
while his friends laugh.

Image source: Pixabay

Colonizing Minds

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Nodded their heads those far-sighted Pandits,
munching snacks, drinking ‘double-doubles’
squeezing their ‘good capon lined’ fat bellies
and dreaming of the smiling ransoms,
ready for their dedication to education.

Plato, the good god of reasoning:
higher reasoning and rational thinking,
helped those benevolent presenters
deflate highly inflated balloons,
balloons that critique neoliberal democracy:
those radical, critical, creative balloons
with their Euripidean democracy,
in which cooks spoil the soup
and ships just float hither – thither,
and defend their reasoning
for a dharmista (just) society, a ‘good governance’,
free from poets and historians.

I’m an eyewitness to this high comedy’s
climactic performance,
when those far-sighted, quick, swift men
crowned and garlanded Kalidas,
Keats, Blake, Shelley,
Rahula and Gurulugomi,
the poor nincompoops, good for nothing,
who cannot help make a single tiny pin
but help sentimental men revolt
against ‘good governance’, and said,
“We highly adore your service
but please, please leave us free”.

Next they turned to
Herodotus, Thucydides,
and Mahavansa chroniclers,
the scavengers that pecked
stinking dustbins of history:
2500-years of history,
and encouraged pupils to spoil harmony,
the communal harmony,
good governance’ and ‘reconciliation’.
Our heroes then thundered, “Be Off”;
those scavengers took their backpacks
and left the class.

Then those wise men lined up
those sons of stupid men
and poured into their empty heads
the new history:
genderless, casteless, raceless
100-year-old colonial history:
the reduced form of history,
which briefly narrates how colonial masters
liberated women from feudal beds;
how they turned barren fields
into tea, rubber and coconuts estates;
how they constructed railways, highways,
gravel ways; how they opened liquor shops
for men and women go dance
those Bacchic dances; and
finally, how they toiled hard to civilize
the islanders: the ‘burnt-up brown monkeys’,
the ‘cunning jackals’.

😊 Smile 😊

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Smiles😊, opens his mouth wide and he does smile😊,
In the festive season, it must be everyone’s style;
Here! There! and everywhere, these people smile😊;
On these city walls, I cannot see anyone hostile.

Loyal is his neck to his body and face well shaven;
His well round belly is a sign he eats only bacon;
Shape and style hail highly that he is not a craven;
How happy they should be who live in this haven!

There! a bag of bones salutes a man with a smile😊;
I can hear what he says standing there immobile,
“You politician, salute us now with your, fake smile😊
When elected, you frown us; that’s your natural style”.

Image source: Pixabay

Enemy

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They are waiting in an ambush
with clubs and stones in their hands
till the culprit comes,

patiently, – making no noise,
without mini-seconds of eye blinks,
like a pack of wolves dazzled by
the flashes of a car,

giving alms to mosquitoes,
(blood donation, the best donation)
swarming around their ears,

for the moment was divine,
which they shouldn’t just slip go;

counting the pulse of their hearts,
“tick – tock, tick – tock, tick – tock”

to take tongue for tongue,
blood for blood

because, the offense is immense;

it is a grave sin; their foe,
who does not love their beliefs,

dearly, madly and violently

LOVES
one of the men’s
sister.

Image source: Pixabay

Helen

Helen by Mahesh Ranaweera

Helen, my darling, sister,
The emblem of sinister,
An unfaithful character
That brought horrid disaster.

The burning flame of desire;
Slyly earned Paris’s sapphire;
A brand never does expire
That many dream to aspire.

You are another caricature
In an epic not so miniature.

Image by Mahesh Ranaweera

Hunting Ground

baby-elephant-256657_960_720 Fun for the chaser; pain for the chased;
trophy for the hunter; terror for the hunted;
a comedy for you; a tragedy for me;

life is so strange,
Hunter, Heartless, Dear.

Killing is slaughter; hunting is sport;
a cat sports with a frightened rat;
you are a hunter; I am always a hunted;

you know what I mean,
Hunter, Heartless, Dear.

Thirty in a day; fifty in three weeks;
mother dies first; baby dies next;
milk spills from nipples; it’s not in vain;

sucking is deemed wholesome,
Hunter, Heartless, Dear.

No law in the city; no law in the jungle;
I don’t understand; I’m not a Darwinian;
you can write a tragedy; defend what you did;

a heroic villain,
Hunter, Heartless, Dear.

Image source: Pixabay