by Cheran
instead of seeds; a place
half full of two-storey houses,
half full of terrorists.
As we sat side by side
on the steps leading down
to the milky stretch of water
covered in glinting fine threads,
shreds of the moon’s curtain –
water that changed colour when its
muddy depths were stirred
and changed again with the shadows
of passing clouds –
my heart melted
when you sang a Sinhala song
in your sweet voice.
Once long ago –
I was a small boy then –
waiting at the Maho station
for the Batticaloa train,
I walked with my father for a while,
some distance along the railway lines.
Midnight.
The quiet sound of a lullaby
murmured through the wind.
The shock of that gentle sound
intercepting the baby’s cries
struck my heart that night
with sudden sadness.
Today too
I am enveloped by
a fine grief.
Did our different languages, after all,
put such distance between us
that we could not smile together,
nor savour
the beauty of falling ponnocchi flowers
blown down by the tumultuous Aadi winds,
nor those sudden moments of hesitation
when the long-tailed peacock
stopped and turned around in its stately walk?
I could not pluck for you
the single peacock feather you desired
nor, in the early hours of the night,
accompany you, as you wished,
across the moonlit grass.
Your eyes could not hide
these small disappointments,
nor can I
forget your gentle affection.
We went our ways without maiming Nature,
leaving the flowers to blossom
and the grass to flourish
you to the south
and I to the north.
At daybreak, when
the cool breeze climbs down
from the huge trees
along the mountain ranges,
as you take your walk
brushing your teeth,
you will remember the days
when we worked together
excavating an ancient city at Maanthai,
and our brief friendship.
Tell your people
here, too, flowers bloom,
grass grows,
birds fly.
Ü‹ñ£ Üö£«î
(AMMA, DON’T WEEP)
Ü‹ñ£ Üö£«î
ïñ¶ ¶ò¬ó„ ²ñ‚è ñ¬ôèœ Þ™¬ô
àù¶ è‡a˜ è¬óò¾‹
ÝÁèœ Þ™¬ô.
«î£O«ô Aò °ö‰¬î¬ò
à¡Qì‹ î‰î¶‹
ªõ®ˆî¶ ¶õ‚°.
¹¿FJ™ M¿‰î à¡ î£LJ¡e¶
°¼F ð®‰î¶.
CîPò °‡®¡ Üù™ ªõŠðˆF™
à¡ õ‡í‚èù¾èœ àô˜‰îù.
G¡ 裟Cô‹H¬ì Þ¼‰¶ ªîPˆî¶
ºˆ¶‚èœ Ü™ô,
ñEèÀ‹ Ü™ô
°¼F â¡ð¬î àí˜Aø 𣇮ò¡
Þƒ° Þ™¬ô.
¶Jô£ Þó¾èO™
‘܊𣒠â¡Á ÜôPˆ ¶®‚Aø
C¡ù ñö¬ô‚°
â¡ù ªê£™õ£Œ?
àôMˆ FK‰¶ Gô¬õ‚ 裆®
ñ£˜H™ A
‘ÜŠð£ èì¾Oì‹ «ð£ù£˜’
â¡Á ªê£™ô£«î
¶òó‹ ªî£ì˜‰î õ¬è¬ò„ ªê£™
°¼F ð®‰î è¬î¬ò„ ªê£™
ªè£´¬ñèœ ÜNòŠ
«ð£Kì„ ªê£™.
AMMA, DON’T WEEP [1985]
(Ü‹ñ£ Üö£«î)
Amma, don’t weep.
There are no mountains to shoulder your sorrow,
there are no rivers
to dissolve your tears.
The instant he handed you
the baby from his shoulder,
the gun fired.
Blood spread on your tali
lying there in the dust.
In the heat of the splintering shell
all your bright dreams withered.
Spurting from your anklet
were neither pearls
nor rubies:
there is no longer a Pandyan king
to recognize blood-guilt.
On sleepless nights
when your little boy stirs restlessly
screaming out, “Appa,”
what will you say?
When you pace the night, showing him the moon
and soothing him against your breast,
don’t say,
“Appa is with God.”
Tell him this sorrow continues,
tell him the story of the spreading blood,
tell him to wage war
to end these cruelties.
♫ô£¬ó»‹ «ð£™ Ü‰î «ïóˆF™ c ÜöM™¬ô
(YOU DIDN’T WEEP THAT DAY)
º¡ñ£¬ô
ªè£…ê«ïó‹ ªõJ™ Þ¼‰î¶
Hø° Þ™¬ô
ï‡ð˜èœ õ¼‹õ¬ó
Mñ£ù G¬ôò º¡PL™ Üñ˜‰¶œ«÷£‹
å¼ CÁñ¬ö
F¯ªó¡Á àóC‚ ªè£‡´ «ð£JŸÁ
Þ¬ìJ¬ì õ¼Aø ªñ¡è£ŸP™
Þîòˆ¶®Šªðù ÜF˜Aø
ñEõ£¬ö Þ¬ôJL¼‰¶
Mó™è¬÷ â´ˆ¶ âù¶ ¬èèO™ î¼Aø£Œ
Mó™èÀ‹ «ðê ñø‰îù
° õ¼ìƒèœ
Þ¡Á HK»º¡
♫ô£¬ó»‹ «ð£ô Ü‰î «ïóˆF™ c ÜöM™¬ô
Üöñ£†ì£Œ â¡ð¶‹
º¡ù«ó ªîK»‹
ÞÁFò£è„ ªê£™ô‚îò
õ£˜ˆ¬îèœ â¬õ«ò£
ÜõŸ¬ø»‹Ãì c ªê£™ôM™¬ô
ºˆîI†´‚ ªè£œ÷«õ£
ñ£˜H™ ºè‹ ¹¬îˆ¶‚ ªè£œ÷«õ£
Ü¡Pˆ
«î£O™ î¬ô꣌ˆ¶‚ ªè£œ÷«õ£
꣈Fò‹ 㶋 Þ™¬ô
ÞÁèŠ ðŸPò Mó™èœ
ÜõŸ¬ø»‹ Mô‚A
â¡e¶ ¶òóˆF¬ó¬ò ÜM›ˆ¶M†´
c‡´ ªê™Aø Mø£‰¬îJ¡ õN
ªñ™ô„ ªê¡Á ñ¬øAø£Œ
° õ¼ìƒèœ
ðQðì˜ è£¬ôJ™
ñ™L¬è àF¼‹ ªî¼ õN «ð£¬èJ™
à¡ Þ¼ñ™ «è†´
G¡ø G¬ù¾
º®ML õ¬óJ™
êñ£‰îó‹ ªè£œÀ‹
î‡ìõ£÷ƒèO™
ï‹ êñ£‰îó‹
ñ£¬ô„ CõŠH™
ªñ™Lò «ñè‹ ªî£ì˜‰¶ ðóõ
ñíL™ à¡ ñ®J™,
裶 ñìL™ ²¼œAø ñJK™,
è‡èO¡ ¶òó Þ¬öJ™,
¶õÀ‹ à¡ àìL™,
àò˜ˆFò °óL™,
à¡ MNèœ ñòƒè¾‹,
èóƒèœ ¶®ˆ¶ â¡ º¶¬è ÞÁ‚°‹
à¡ùî èíƒèO™
Þ¼ˆîªô¡ø£™ ÞõŸP™î£¡
ÞŠ«ð£«î£ 
ðQJ™ îQˆî Ü«ê£è ñó‹
è„꣌ ªï´ ªõOJ¡ ï´M™
îQˆF¼‚°‹ 埬øŠ ð¬ù.
YOU DIDN’T WEEP THAT DAY [1985]
(♫ô£¬ó»‹ «ð£™ Ü‰î «ïóˆF™ c ÜöM™¬ô)
Early evening.
The s
un shone for a while,
then died away.
We sat at the entrance of the airport
waiting for the others.
A sudden drizzle beat against us,
then went its way.
You withdrew your hold
of the manivaazhai tree
whose leaves throbbed like heart-beats
as the breeze came and went
and put your hands in mine.
Even your fingers had forgotten to speak.
Four years ago, today.
You didn’t cry like the others
when we parted,
and I knew you would not.
Nor did you speak any words
appropriate to a farewell.
There was no possibility
of our kissing each other,
you could not bury your face in my chest
nor lay your head on my shoulder.
You took away the hand I held so tight,
dropped a curtain of grief over me,
walked away along the long veranda
and vanished.
Four years.
Once, on a dewy morning
walking along the jasmine-strewn street
I stopped short, hearing you cough:
that memory will last to eternity
like the parallel lines
of our lives.
If I lived at all, it was in those moments:
when the thin clouds spread gradually
into the evening’s redness
and I lay on the sand, my head in your lap,
the hair curling about your earlobes,
a trace of sadness in your eyes,
your body yielding, your voice calling,
your eyelids closing,
your trembling hands tightening
about my shoulders.
In those perfect moments.
But now I stand in the cold
in the middle of a long landscape:
a lone palmyra tree.
21 «ñ 1986
(21 MAY 1986)
ï´ ÞóM™ i´ âKAø¶
c 𣘈¶‚ ªè£‡®¼‚°‹ «ð£«î
àù¶ ñ¬ùM¬ò‚
èˆFò£™ °ˆ¶Aø£˜èœ
°‡´i„² Mñ£ùƒèœ
G¬ô‚°ˆî£Œ i›‰¶ A÷‹¹¬èJ™
ÅKò åO ð†´ˆ ªîP‚è‚
°‡´èœ i›A¡øù
â™ô£ˆ F¬êèO½‹
°ö‰¬îèœ Ü¿Aø£˜èœ
𶃰°N‚°œ Þøƒ°Aø ÜõêóˆF™
M¿‰¶ à¬ì‰î Í‚°‚è‡í£®¬òŠ ðŸP«ò
Ü‹ñ‹ñ£ ÞŠ«ð£¶‹ ºµºµ‚Aø£œ
â¡QìI¼‰¶ Þóˆî‹
ªðŸÁ‚ ªè£œõîŸA™¬ô â¡Á
ðE¾ì¡ ªê£™Aø£˜
Þóˆî õƒAŠ ªð£ÁŠð£÷˜
C«ùè̘õñ£ù ¶Šð£‚A„ ꇬìJ™
è£í£ñ™ «ð£ùõ¬ùˆ «î®‚ªè£‡´«ð£ù
ï‡ð¬ùˆ «î®‚ªè£‡®¼‚A«ø¡
üùï£òèŠ ¹ó†Cò£ «ê£êLêŠ ¹ó†Cò£
â¡Á Aˆ¶‚ ªè£‡®¼‰îõ˜èO™ Cô˜
dóƒA‚ °‡´ð†´„ ªêˆ¶Š «ð£Aø£˜èœ
Þó‡´ Mñ£ùˆ °î™èÀ‚°‹
Þ¼ðˆ«î¿ ªýLªè£Šì˜ °î™èÀ‚°‹
îŠHŠ H¬öˆ¶
å¼ °†® ï£»ì¡ «ñ£F‚
赂裙 à¬ì‰¶
膮L™ Aì‰î«ð£¶
‘ªú¡ ¹ˆîº‹ «ñ£†ì£˜ ¬ê‚Aœ
憴‹ è¬ô»‹’ â¡ø ¹ˆî般î‚
ªè£‡´õ¼Aø£˜
å¼ ‘Þ¡óªô‚²õ™’ ï‡ð˜
¬õˆFò꣬ô‚ ìóJ™
ªê…C½¬õ‚ °P
ªð£Pˆ¶‚ªè£‡®¼‰îõ¼‹
ªýLªè£Šì˜ Å´ð†´ M¿Aø£˜
âQ‹
è£è‹ Þ¼‚Aø¶ èìî£C Þ¼‚Aø¶
Ãì«õ
Þò‰Fóˆ ¶Šð£‚A åL»‹
ÞŠ«ð£¶‹ ⊫𣶋 «ð£ô‚
裟P™ Þ¼‰¶ ªè£‡«ìJ¼‚Aø¶.
21 MAY 1986 [1986]
(21 «ñ 1986)
At midnight your house is aflame.
In front of your eyes
they stab your wife.
Air Force planes dip to the earth
and rise again.
Bombs fall, glinting,
catching the sunlight.
In all directions,
children scream.
My grandmother continues to grumble
about her reading glasses which fell and broke
as she rushed for the bunker.
The director of the blood-bank
informs us, very kindly,
there is no blood left.
I search for a friend
who is looking for another, lost
in an entirely friendly skirmish.
A few folk, discussing whether
this is a democratic revolution
or a socialist one, are demolished
by cannon fire.
Having survived two air attacks
and twenty helicopter gunships
I break my ankle, tangling
with a small dog.
As I lie in bed, an ‘intellectual’ friend
brings me Zen and the Art
of Motorcycle Maintenance.
The man trying to fix
the Red Cross sign on the roof
of the hospital, falls;
picked off by a helicopter.
All the same,
crows are left, and so is paper.
Also
the sound of the machine gun
now, as always,
remains in the air.
âK‰¶ªè£‡®¼‚°‹ «ïó‹
(IN A TIME OF BURNING)
Þ¡Á õ£ŒFøõ£«î
ªñ÷ù‹ ªè£œ
Þ¡Á ñ†´‹.
ï‹ õ£JL¼‰¶ õ¼Aø
嚪õ£¼ à‡¬ñ‚°‹
嚪õ£¼ ¶Šð£‚A‚ °‡´
ðKê£è‚ A¬ì‚Aø
è£ô‹ å¡Á õ¼«ñ£?
Ü™ô âQ¡ ãQ‰î Üõô‹?
º„ê‰F ñ£ñóˆF¡W›
âK‰îù àì™èœ
â¿‰î ²õ£¬ôèO™
è¼Aù °¼ˆ¶‚èœ.
¹¬è;
Ü„ê‹; ªè£´¬ñ;
¶òó‹; dF;
ܬùˆ¶«ñ èÁŠ¹;
ܲó Gø‹
¶˜‚°Pèœ MóM
Þ¼O¡ Gö™èœ èMò
àì™èÀ‹ ñùº‹
âK‰¶ªè£‡®¼‚°‹
Þ‰«ïó‹.
°ó™ å´ƒAŠ
ð£ì™ Þö‰îù °J™èœ.
Ió†C ªîPˆî
MNèœ ï蘈F
Üôø ñø‰îù˜ CÁõ˜.
꣋ð¬ô‚
裟Á‚ ªè£‡´ «ð£JŸÁ.
⽋¹è¬÷
 ªè£‡´ «ð£JŸÁ.
ñQîˆ
¶Šð£‚A º¬ùJ™
ïìˆF„ ªê¡Á
¹¬î°N MO‹H™
¬õˆ¶„ ²†´Š
¹øƒè£ô£™
ñ‡¬íˆ îœO
Í®M†´ õ‰¶,
ªî¼«õ£ó„ ²õK™
°¼Fò¬ø‰¶
Gò£ò‹ ªê£™Aø£˜èœ,
Gò£ò‹!
ò£˜ «è†ì£˜ à‹IìˆF™
Gò£òˆ¬î?
â„CÁ ¹™½‹
â„CÁ îO¼‹
â„CÁ ¹œÀ‹
ï‹H‚¬èèO¡
àJ˜Í„²ì«ù«ò
ñô¼‹
õ÷¼‹ ºF¼‹
ñ®»‹
âù  ÜP«õ¡.
>
âQ‹
ê£ðƒèœ Å›‰î
 âñªîùˆ
¶òK™ ¹ô‹¹‹
ºF«ò£˜ Cô¼‚°
Þ‚èí‹,
àì™èÀ‹ ñùº‹
âK‰¶ªè£‡®¼‚°‹
Þ‚èí‹
ï‹H‚¬è¬ò
âŠð® à¬óŠ«ð¡?
¹¬î°NèÀ‚A¬ìJ™
HíƒèÀ‚A¬ìJ™
°¼F ð®‰î
à¬ìèÀ‚A¬ìJ™
¹ˆFó «ê£èˆF™
ªï…² H÷‰î
Ü¡¬ùò˜ è‡a˜ˆ
¶OèÀ‚A¬ìJ™
‘¶˜Šð£‚Aò‹’
îŸè£Lèñ£ù¶
â¡Á °óªô¿Šð
ªñL‰î à콋
õ÷˜‰î »‹
à¬ì‰î ñùº‹
°ö‹Hò î¬ô»ñ£Œ
õ£˜ˆ¬îèÀ‚° ܬôA«ø¡
.
IN A TIME OF BURNING [1986]
(âK‰¶ªè£‡®¼‚°‹ «ïó‹)
Don’t open your mouth today.
Be silent