By Mahesan Niranjan –

Prof. Mahesan Niranjan

This day, the Eighteenth of May,
as a Lankan, I remember,
remember our dead of a decade ago,
in the heat of the battle,
amidst the shrubs of the Vanni:
Our dead who perished in their tens,
hundreds, thousands, or More.

Strafed from above, shot from sides,
blown from below, and shelled from afar,
hiding in shallow bunkers, running on thorny lanes,
trapped on sandy beaches with nowhere to swim,
shielding offspring with both bare hands,
huggings of love, whisperings of comfort,
comfort of a God that never came.
Closing their eyes, shutting their ears,
from those deadly sounds of
strafing, shooting, blowing and shelling.
That’s how, on this day, a decade ago:
Our dead perished in their tens,
hundreds, thousands, or More.

The Coward and the Callous:
entrenched traits of our Lankan evil
firmly engraved in their warped brains,
finding comfort in their respective caves
of ignorance and air-condition,
to run and hide, to seek and kill.
Issuing of orders,
orders of rudderless leaders.

Fighter volunteers of the North:
cajoled and conscripted,
trained to kill and themselves be killed,
ruthless to blow up and themselves be blown.
Arrogance in power and emptiness in purpose,
under cover of fake promises.

Fighter volunteers of the South:
job seekers and heroes,
trained to kill and ready to torture,
infused with fear and hate of the Other.
Guiltless in practice of learned skills,
under cover of lies and deceit.

So well-rehearsed was that drama,
drama enacted across battle lines,
so on this day, a decade ago:
Our dead perished in their tens,
hundreds, thousands, or More.

Oh, Lankan, do you as me remember,
remember knowing our better days,
of politics with Our good at heart,
of free health, study and speech,
of the Anthem we brothers sang,
of bringing Peace,
of gaining Knowledge, Truth and Faith,
of being children off one Mother’s womb,
of offering grains, flowers and fruits?

Yet today, the Eighteenth of May,
mind devoid of meaning I cry,
cry why in the heat of that battle,
amidst those shrubs of the Vanni:
Our dead had to perish in their tens,
hundreds, thousands, and More.