by Karthick Ramirez

image

Many a disease plagues this world

but none so devastating

as the silence of those

that can speak.

I speak today,

I cry today,

for you. My Sister,

My Mother, My Comrade.

My Sister! With music

in your name.

The ‘isai’ of your sacrifice

like that of my other sisters

Manorama, Nilofar, Phulmoni

will be sung for ages to come

in songs of our resistance

This I promise,

your brother, a sorry being

whose only weapons

are his words.

My Mother! I was born

as your son the day

the child of your womb

was killed. Mother,

I am your son.

As I am the son of the mothers

of Eelam, Kurdistan, Palestine.

A son who seeks justice

for unheard voices,

for untold horrors,

for unspoken miseries.

A sorry being, your son,

whose only weapons

are his words.

My Comrade! I claim to live

(rather shamelessly)

for the cause you died for,

a people longing for freedom,

a soil aching for peace,

a love for life,

now facing despair,

now facing death.

As my eyes see

what has been done to you

tears pour – as words.

Words. The only weapons of

a sorry being, your comrade.

Oh dove of freedom

torn apart by vultures of lust!

Oh lamb of peace

prey to jackals of power!

Oh angel of justice!

Oh goddess of liberty!

She lies there, naked

and ravaged

by creatures called ‘men’.

Disrobed was not your body,

but the farce called Lanka.

Violated was not you,

but the notion of humanity.

Raped, again and again,

was the silence

of those that can speak,

but who chose not to.

But I speak today,

I cry today.

Your sibling, your son,

your comrade.

Now a man.

Now a walking corpse.

Whose only weapons

are his words.

As of now…