Worn out Cloaks?

You wash your cloak;
You love your cloak,
And keep it safe
From dust and rust.

But dust and rust
Can creep it in
And dirt your cloak
And wear it out.

Will you save it
or throw it off,
Wear a fresh cloak
And love it more?

 

Copyright © December 8, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Worms shall wait!

With each step: one, two, three and the next,
To the grave down thy feet thou move ahead;
Worms and all that wait there for their feast
Shall devour thy eyes, thighs and thy tiny feet.

 

Copyright © July 23, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Contradictions

Is death so sad and birth so joyous;
does birth give mirth, and death just pain?
yet,
in birth and death, contrasts I see,
for one does cry, others do smile.

One’s misery is another’s mirth;
victory for one is defeat for another.
The born does cry; his dad does smile;
her mom does cry while the dead does smile.

In a naming ceremony,
a man first cried, and then he smiled;
a message one received,
which made her smile,
yet soon she cried.

A reality
in such contradictions
is
one comes alone; s/he suffers alone;
s/he cries alone, and s/he goes alone.

ප්‍රිති විරෝධතා

විපත දුකක් ලු,
උපත සැපක් ලු.
එකෙක් හඬයි,
කොක් හඬළයි.

එකෙක්ගෙ දුක
අනෙකගෙ සැප
එකෙකුට ජය
අනෙකට  ……?

උපන් එකා අඬයි
උගේ පියා …..?
මවක් වැරෙන් අඬත්
මැරුණු එකී ….?

නම් දුන් මගුලේ
අති පණ්ඩිතයෙක්
මඳ හස නන්වා
ඉකි බිඳ ඇඬුවා.

අසා විපත මයිලනුවන්
මහ හයියෙන් කොක් හඬ දී
තත්පරයක් ගිය සැනෙකින්
ඒ උන්දැම විලාප දෙයි.

අරුම – පුදුම, සංසාරේ
මට දැනෙනා ඇත්ත තමයි
අයෙක් මෙහෙට තනියම එයි,
තනියම මර ළතෝනි දෙයි,
මොහොතක් මෙහි රැඟුම් රඟා,
තනියම හැර යන්නට යයි.

නි.රණවීර (A translation to “Contradictions” in Love, Lust & Dust (2019).

Copyright © August 3, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

To die is certain

I know I’m doomed to die;
Maybe today, end of the day
Or some other day if not today;
Somehow, I’m doomed to die.

I don’t want to fight for fame,
For fame does not long remain;
whether it’s fame or shame;
I’m certain, it’s doomed to die.

I don’t want to live in a dream,
For I know I’m doomed to wake,
Nor I want to dry your dreams;
For I know, they’re doomed to die.

Don’t think that I’d love to die,
Or I would dash inside and hide,
For when he knocks our own doors;
I know, we all are doomed to go.

Sun dies as anything else

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

Mother Love

She ran; madly she ran,
asking for mustard seeds,
only some, a little,
a handful of mustard seeds
to cure her son.

She ran; madly she ran
from one house to another,
where none had ever died,
asking for mustard seeds,
from a family of immortals.
“She is mad; her endeavor is mad;
it’s as futile as that squirrel mother’s act,”
onlookers thought; none spoke,
but she ran; madly she ran.

She started at dawn
when dew was glistening,
and bubbles were dancing
to the tune of oil lamps.
She ran; madly she ran,
passing the dying buds and roses,
burnt by the scorching sun,
but still she ran; madly she ran.

She ran; madly she ran,
with no food, with no drink,
with disheveled hair, loosened clothes,
while tears of blood were pouring
from her aching, motherly breasts.
She ran; still she ran, madly she ran.
“Sister, your run is mad;
we are mortals but not immortals,”
they said, but she ran; madly she ran.

She ran; faster she ran;
madly she ran,
until the sun died,
the life giver and killer died,
and till houses and trees wore
black veils to mourn for his death,
she ran, madly she ran.

Suddenly, her tears stopped;
she stopped, but with her son,
the lifeless flower,
still in her arms.

Sketch by Sachin Ranaweera

Copyright © January 16, 2017, Newton Ranaweera

Clock

I know this is gonna lie

motionless, emotionless, lifeless,

may be today, tomorrow or at any time,

while working, while walking or talking,

when its corroded, eroded rustic machine,

lacking supply of red oil, a block of its entangled wires,

cries louder: click – clock, click – clock, click-clock, click…

and suddenly, too suddenly, without letting anyone know,

stops.

Photo: Pixabay