Pink Ribbon’s symbol
It symbolizes and represents a woman
— And its elegance, beautifies her daily
Its valuable production is the only
— Nourishment for infant’s body and mind
Its engulfed fullness is women’s uniqueness
– Thus protect the pride with
Alluring enticement; be alert frequently
– Towards its structure and function
Pink ribbon is whispering, reminding
— Within October; Dear ladies listen
Wake up and make up your mind
— towards your own breast’s changers!
Touch, Look, and Check! Its abnormalities
— the ‘hidden enemy’s arrival
Self-examine yourself! Only once a month
– the ‘medical experts’ aspiration
Beware! Towards the changes, as any lumps, bumps, or any color differences
Starting signs with ‘abnormal growth’ for a woman begins at the age of 20
The ‘cell mutation’; its early detection
– Is your protection; Causes to cure!
Though a lady, Risky! Who has ‘family history’
— It transmits through the genes
The lady who avoids lactation! Motherhood
— Delays risky! For breast cancer too
Beware! Those addicted to alcohol, processed food along with obesity
Lady who delivered baby over her
— Age of 35 is risky! For future breast cancer
O! Dear ladies, lift up your heart
— Towards those; your contributions are
Needed for the prevention of two deaths per day, due to breast cancer
Words: Merril A. Perera
A Piece of Home Truth
“Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.”
Wislawa Szymborska – Under One Small Star
Maybe my father was disappointed
When I refused point-blank
To represent our family
At the monthly meeting
Of the Village Development Co-operative.
I never really volunteer to sit (if I can help it at all)
For hours in the community hall,
Infested with dust, fleas, and cobweb.
The very sight of the wooden benches
Occasionally slept on by the stray dogs
In the absence of gatherings
And the crumbly yellowing walls
Where the rain water seeping through the mossy roof tiles
Has painted blackish splotches, amorphous
Is as loathsome to me
As the stagnant water and silt
In the grassytrench running by.
What I dread most, however,
Is being in the company
Of my neighbours – the poor sods
With small vices
Loquacious or boastful or sarcastic
Beetle-chewing or beedi-smoking
Or given to cheap liquor or very rarely all,
The small fry without the privilege of education
I’ve always been enjoying
Ironically at the expense of themselves
and other people like them.
It’s even as absurd and as paradoxical as this:
I, who extoll their virtues
In my writings
Seek to avoid their company
In real life
At my parents’ expense.
Who am I, then?
An honest hypocrite?
A snobbish humanist?
Or a damnable melange
Of both?
Words: Jayashantha Jayawardhana
