by Karthick Ramirez
[December 15, London, Sri Lanka Guardian] 
Many a disease plagues this worldbut none so devastating
as the silence of those
that can speak.
I speak today,
I cry today,
for you. My Sister,
My Mother, My Comrade.
My Sister! With music
in your name.
The ‘isai’ of your sacrifice
like that of my other sisters
Manorama, Nilofar, Phulmoni
will be sung for ages to come
in songs of our resistance
This I promise,
your brother, a sorry being
whose only weapons
are his words.
My Mother! I was born
as your son the day
the child of your womb
was killed. Mother,
I am your son.
As I am the son of the mothers
of Eelam, Kurdistan, Palestine.
A son who seeks justice
for unheard voices,
for untold horrors,
for unspoken miseries.
A sorry being, your son,
whose only weapons
are his words.
My Comrade! I claim to live
(rather shamelessly)
for the cause you died for,
a people longing for freedom,
a soil aching for peace,
a love for life,
now facing despair,
now facing death.
As my eyes see
what has been done to you
tears pour – as words.
Words. The only weapons of
a sorry being, your comrade.
Oh dove of freedom
torn apart by vultures of lust!
Oh lamb of peace
prey to jackals of power!
Oh angel of justice!
Oh goddess of liberty!
She lies there, naked
and ravaged
by creatures called ‘men’.
Disrobed was not your body,
but the farce called Lanka.
Violated was not you,
but the notion of humanity.
Raped, again and again,
was the silence
of those that can speak,
but who chose not to.
But I speak today,
I cry today.
Your sibling, your son,
your comrade.
Now a man.
Now a walking corpse.
Whose only weapons
are his words.
As of now…
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