They go past,
Multi-barreled meat grinders,
Tin soldiers in perfect formation. Eyes Right.
I have paid for their protection, with my silence.
I will fear death no longer,
nor claymore, nor unclaimed parcel,
no brainwashed soul willing to die to take my own worthless life.
I am safe.
I once loved my neighbour,
My office-mate, the shopkeeper, the dark Salwar’d lady at the bus-stop.
The mark on their forehead, a warning.
Their furtive glance, intrigue.
They have no right to breath my air.
I will dance gladly to the music of those who rule over me,
for they are just, and their music tuneful,
the rhythms pistol whipped into my skull
by their children.
A table is prepared before me, I am no longer hungry
My cup runneth over.
for this morning, on the fourth of February,
when a golden Lion rises, I will turn my back.
I am Independent.
by Rohan De Livera.
This is the first post by a guest author. The first of many, I hope, because after all,
Ravana did have ten heads. Although I haven’t received many complaints about my head, if two heads are better than one, then ten must certainly be more satisfying than just my own.
My friend Rohan De Livera lives and works in Colombo where he helps to run a small family business. When he isn’t writing bad poetry or doing other stuff, he composes music, thinks about running marathons, and contemplates his impending midlife crisis.
P.S. Incidentally, I sent Rohan a much cooler sounding description of himself, but he
preferred this version.