Kanji, the Taste of Survival
During war of gunfire and fear,
When the sky made the rain drops into tears.
Our Tamil mothers and sisters stirred the pot with quiet and trembling hands,
Kanji simmered - soft, thin and proud.
No feast of spice, no spice of pure joy,
Just rice and water, salt and a pure pain.
Yet in that round bowl, a pulse of one nation,
Beat gently through hunger and rain.
A scent of rice, the sound of rain,
A powerful prayer whispered through black night.
That one more dawn might be kind,
The one more meal might hold them tight.
Mothers waited by broken walls,
Fathers searched through dust, ash and flames.
Children sipped from rusted tins,
Too young to understand the pain and suffering.
When the war turned into dust,
Silence took the soldier’s roar.
Kanji remained - a taste of memory ,
Of the hearts that starved, yet asked no more.
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