In Sri Lanka these days,
There is a movement for the right of voice
And flesh, of those supposedly marginalized
By the bedrock of tradition.
The gays and the lesbians are hoping to storm
The streets this month, to voice their call for freedom
From being trapped inside cobwebbed cupboards
Holding onto wedding attire that perhaps
Will take a while more to see
A decorated nave or lily-filled halls.
Still how beautiful is tradition?
What lies beyond skin, hurricane and coveting eye
In that shrouded place called integrity
When winds of the flesh, fail to fluster
A single fig leaf from where it was delicately placed
By Adam and Eve. How beautiful is it
To float as a hope-kindled vessel,
A proud virgin, who will wait till a vow
Pledges her lips, zip and tips, to the savagery
That only the firewood of lust can burn.
And tradition, it is the champagne
Among many red and white wines, it defines
An echelon, that pretenders can never cusp, clench
Or steal. And love, in that old-fashioned chemistry
Of man and woman, in courtship and marriage,
In the sacrament of worthiness of knowing that the woman next to you
Has given every crack of hers, every nadir
Every coastline to that pristine surrender,
When two twigs kindle that extraordinary place of being
Two exclusive custodians, in fiber, filament and flame.
And how beautiful is that ground
That will never be overthrown of her fecundity
The center of gravity of all things man-made
That rests like a monolith battling the winds
And the waves, a mainstay of time
Unflinched by domestic forces blowing from all corners
Standing tall with her heart of innocence
Even amidst rust-sprinkled horizons
Standing her ground like an indomitable lighthouse
Few vessels can ever resist.