Tender the Sky
Pain resonates in the mud. Unbalances
you, sticks you in centuries one can only
imagine. Toppled spheres atop
consecrated pews littered with charred
Easter missalettes. Doesn’t count as
abstract art, your canvas. Bleeds,
splattered hostile wails, upended
concrete and tea whorled into one.
Colombo, port on the majestic Kelani
river. Sri Lanka’s heart. Suffered a
cardiac arrest that day. Triage, the
silent saint. Florence Nightingale
stirred to round up the troops.
Revenge you say? Ambassador suites
were available. You had the means.
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