When the levant burns, and Galilee gets bombed, dark clouds fly over Jerusalem. I could no longer sleep. My dearest Nephew in Kiev, I say a final goodbye, leaving you in the fields.
When the levant burns, and Galilee gets bombed, dark clouds fly over Jerusalem. I could no longer sleep. My dearest Nephew in Kiev, I say a final goodbye, leaving you in the fields.
‘I am not a poet but scribble lines I never publish on paper. This was written in 2001, while travelling by bus from Gampaha, my native town, to Colombo. The bus was passing through Main Street, Pettah, and I could not take my eyes off those cart pullers gathered on both sides of the road. Back then, I was a student. It was the day. I imagined their Night.’