Before the Departing Breath
Because the life is a function of one’s breath
When breath tends to zero, the life tends to death
Of what use is collecting undue enormous wealth
As the matter of time decides you to be devoid of breath
For the survival of one, breath is a sine qua non
To challenge that phenomenon, there is none
Men in authority, kings and the General
The poor, the rich and even the venerable
All will ultimately end up their lives with death
When they happened to be devoid of breath
No one can predict the time of departing breath
For that matter , even the date of one’s death
However, the life span could be unpredictably brief
For the fact remains, its like a dew drop on a leaf
If one takes due cognizance of this gospel truth
One tends to be duty bound to mankind before the death
Then soothing in the heart, is what you experience with
When you release to the atmosphere, your departing breath
It is unethical to demarcate erroneous length or breadth
Of your land, to interfere the neighbour’s margin with
Cultivating such habits would invariably be the wealth
To be with you, when you bid adieu with the departing breath
You must at all times be prepared to be complacent with
Issues encountered , inter alia, matters connected to wealth
Abide by these norms, when time permits prior to thy death
It helps linger peace in thy mind before your departing breath
Words: S.S.J. Fernando
The Flicker
The kerosene lamp
Made out of a glass bottle of pesticide
Brown-yellow and translucent
Cast a pale glow, almost yellow
Pushing the darkness
Enveloping the rectangular living room
To its four corners
Where it’d lurk like a leopard on the prowl
In dense wilderness
Ready to pounce upon its unsuspecting prey
As death does in some cases
Leaving us totally bewildered
With the answerless question ‘Why?’.
The large-hearted old man, 83
In the ever-tightening stranglehold of paralysis
With pain too deep for words
As life slowly leaked from his wrinkled, emaciated body
As water does drop by drop from a broken faucet
Lay on his grimy rush mat spread over his coir mattress
Lumpy here and sagging there and sinking in between
Upon his ramshackle bed
Placed against the tall white wall mildewed at the top
On the greyish floor, cracked here and ringing hollow there.
His silver-haired head rested on the cotton pillow
Encased in a white pillowcase, freshly laundered
Like the yellowish blanket with thin white stripes
Tucked in from the sides and down under his feet
As he lay there face upwards at the edge of life.
The lamp’s flame
Conjured huge, ungainly shadows,
On the crumbly lime-washed walls,
That would easily have been the sly agents of death
Which, by its very nature, is larger than life.
The howling of invisible dogs in the streets,
Along with the ominous hooting of an invisible owl
Hung on the cold, nocturnal wind,
Like a foreboding
That gave shudders to his wife
Weeping by the head of his bed
Fifty years of their life together
Would soon be behind them.
He opened his eyes and coughed drily,
And the glow of the lamp suddenly brightened
And then shrank into a flicker
As the dying man closed his eyes.
The flicker’s glow grew paler and paler still
And her sobbing grew louder and louder still
Soon the darkness pounced back on the living room
Heedless of her loud, piercing cries.
Heart-rending, yes.
Futile nevertheless.
Words: Jayashantha Jayawardhana
