In indolent eloquence,
gazing view of tropical modernism
Where an Englishman
became Ceylonese
The familiar wind,
where jasmine comes wrapped
in green leaves,
the scented rain drops
Algae on ancient rocks
turned black
with a broken glass of history
I wait for the familiar rain,
I – a Sri Lankan
unlike my father
(who once was a Ceylonese)
Then turned part Kiwi
(led the haka at Marae
school camp)
tahi, rua, toru, wha and I,
wait for the layered sky,
the flax scented drizzle
Ka mate, ka mate
I die, I die
Ka ora’ Ka ora’
I live, I live
In sketches of my past,
tomorrows that hide below the sand
Stage set by Bawa,
search deep within clay
For a shadow – a reflection,
I dig with a spade-less hand
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