Dawn of War

It flies, a solitary black crow
Above the debris of damaged homes
Abandoned in fear and dread
Beyond the parched and barren lands
Fields untended and forsaken.



The echoes of children at play,
Of flopping cows on roads and farms
Of women preparing an evening meal,
Dogs and chickens, cats and bats,
Are now but figments of the past.

For now it is a land of death
That wails and weeps of lives unsaved
Parched from the the stream of blood that flowed
Mute to the cries and welts of battle
Numb to the scorching summer heat.

Oh yes it weeps but still it glides
As it aims at the distant single tree
To rest its wings and heal its heart
To gain its strength to guard the land
Until that seeds of freedom sprout.

(Manja, Mar. 31, 2013, Sri Lanka)