It looked a rock jutting out
On the deserted banks of the Kalawewa;
The golden waters of the tank
Had turned to tears
When it had helplessly observed
A fierce battle of a roaming tusker and the leader
Of the reserve herd, for whom it ended
In death.
Was it passion or doom that made them struggle;
For a cow of the herd? The tusker, the fittest, survived
Stabbing the patriarch over and over to make him fall.
What did the tusker gain except dismay of the stars
That hid themselves among the clouds?
Following morning the waiting earth of Kalawewa banks
Hosted a heavy funeral as the whole ménage of the reserve-
Adult and old, baby and young, marched quietly to the fallen hero
Stroking the carcass gently with their trunks; eyes dazed with thoughts inexplicable
At which the ringlets of water sank, trees weathered, the air still.
- Chandana Ruwan Jayanetti