White

White

White is peace

It is surrender

It is the giving up of hope

White is the cloth

That wraps the corpse

Burning to ashes

White is the thira

That lights the oil lamp

An offering to the Buddha

White is her saree

She wears to the temple

Praying for safety

White are the clouds

That float against the blue

Of a sky that has seen no hate

Replaced Noises

Replaced Noises

She once heard the pew pew pew of a gun

Now the songs of a bird

She once heard the boom boom of a bomb

Now the crashing waves of the ocean

She once heard the wailings of a child

Now the wind flying through the leaves

She once heard the hushed whispers of the day

Now the un-fearing voices of the night

She once heard “war, war, war!”

Now the stories of defeat of her friends

Tomatoes!

Tomatoes!

For her tomatoes meant few things.

Pizza!

The bright red of ketchup

Zigzagging on French Fries

The fine slices between buttered bread

Chopped cubes with cheese in a still hot Submarine

For him tomatoes meant other things.

Peppered for a salad, onions too

Preserved for future use, the jam bottles lined neatly

Tossed in with some salt, to the bubbling curry

For another her tomatoes were nothing

Only a dead memory

The small plots, plants so small

Bearing fruits of greens, yellows and reds.

The juice had splattered with her blood

A painting on a wall

Fruits that once found her some coins

Now paying not even for her life

Dust Covered Peace

Dust Covered Peace

In a dusty corner of her Achchi’s house

She found something she hadn’t seen before

It was in the dusty handkerchief that Seeya once used

Lying forgotten on a dusty dressing table, the mirror a cracked web

“What is this, Achchi?” she asked,

“I’ve never seen it before!”

Achchi held the handkerchief to her nose, breathing in the faint scent

Seeya’s once favorite perfume still there, unbeaten by age

She gave it to the little on, a gift to be treasured

“I haven’t seen it in many years

But I think its called peace!”

The President Speaks

The President Speaks

Can you end the war? Yes

Will you end the war? Yes

Will you punish the wicked? Yes

Will the roads be built? Yes

Are you going to give hope to others? Yes

Make sure their dreams come true? Yes

Will they love you as a leader, president and father?

No!

Tears are for the Undead

Tears are for the Undead

With a shaking hand he tore the

Envelope open. Slowly, his hand

Reached out for the letter. He knew

What the words would say. Not news

To him was his son’s death. The

Young soldier too young to be

Holding a gun instead

Of a pen and paper. But the

Gun was chosen and

The gun had killed him. Now

A body that would never reach

His home. His father didn’t shed a single

Tear. What’s the use? His boy was

Already dead.

Victim of Suicide

Victim of Suicide

The little girl didn’t see what hit her

She never heard the boom

When people screamed

Telling her to move

She stood shock still

She felt the lady behind her

The rustling of a skirt

She felt, didn’t hear

The push to run away

Too late though she was

Because before she could turn

Or even run away

Her body was nothing but charred bits

Staining the buildings and shops

The Royal Corpse

The Royal Corpse

Jamma had a reason to be proud

Or at least she once did

Of her royal blood she used to talk

As if royalty still ran in her veins

Jaffna was a palace for her

A paradise built on earth

Then the earth shattered,

The thunder boomed,

The sun scorched the earth

She now looks at the

Newly built houses

Faces she doesn’t know

Janani Selvachchandi,

Once a queen

Now a corpse in a camp.