The Window of the Present

Nightmares, long dead,
Peer through the shattered panes of the
Window of the present.

The dead of the south, killed on the streets,

Auschwitz from Colombo

Colombo. March. The city white fire
That pours through vehement trees burst into flame,
And only a faint but nearing wind
Stirring the dust
From relics of foreign invaders, thrown


Gutted houses
Gutted lives
Charred wood
Charred flesh
Shattered brick
Shattered glass
Hammer blows of fists

The shadow of your story

That evening
your voice was low
you spoke slowly on a darkened stage
and opened a door to the past
that let the present in
in a surge of unfiltered hate


We can forget all;
spurning the loss
of this miserable life,
with the confidence
sparked in a moment;
along the Galle road,
we race

Animal Crackers

"Draw me a lion."
So I set my pen
to work. Produce a lazy, kindly beast....
Colour it yellow.

"Does it bite?"

The Song of the Defeated

The song of the victors
rises from every direction.
The song, reaching its cresendo,
lands like a spit on our faces.
And yet, they are afraid.
Why? Because they lack
the armour of justice.


Journalists for Democracy in Sri Lanka

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