Through the patchwork horizon
You hear of rehabilitation and reinstatement of civilians
Where they once belonged.
And here, you too find, ragamuffins
That sweat imbued innocence
Grafting the hoodoo of the wind
To hover a kite on the Jaffna sky
And just a mile ahead, there is an old man
A tiger sympathizer, smoking
A cigarette, telling his grandson
How life was unlivable those years
Civil liberties were exiled in the south.
And those little ears that hear
Of their uncles and aunts, will drift
To the rat race, when all will be forgotten
To the slow infiltration of affluence
Both inside and out
And there are no scorpions, or tarantulas
Inside little hearts that only see
The chalk-graft on a black board
The fireworks that cross synapses
To unload the cargo
Of what emboldens the conscience and stiffen the spine,
Without striping the skin of the beast.