An academic in Sri Lanka,
Is neither prince nor pauper,
He makes an honest living,
Floating words into open ears,
And inside, they become an abstract painting,
What education is, and will always be.
Supremely abstract, a personalized
Opus on canvas.
And I’m that lecturer,
Whose existence turns to a living,
When you see throngs on graduation day
Holding a scroll, the bible of hope
For some, a parchment that defines
Where they can go in dream and hope.
I’m that man now, an unglamorous
Role of being a “bread loser”
The potential overflowing, even billowing,
And still the riches are miserly.
I just about earn enough,
That’s the truth of the matter.
And I look at my salary slip, and I see my wife smiling,
Knowing I make enough to make it all real
For us, a life of subtle excess,
And pauper’s greed.
The truth is, there is no yeast to leaven
For some types of dough,
The type that doesn’t grow on trees
And is still a bankable green leaf.
