I Dream Of A Country…

| by Sunalie Ratnayake

( September 25, 2012, Los Angeles, Sri Lanka Guardian)

I dream of a country;

where the soothing breeze may kiss my face with all its true candor,

a breeze that shall pacify the frames of a thousand shattered lives,

perhaps even more - tens of thousands so dear,

lives crushed by myriad jingoists of the hour,

and that breeze, I dream to have never seen,

the two-faced, unmindful culprits insincere,

the ones who have wounded every notion of humanity, through the façade of command,

seeming to continue their filthy drive, till they suck every bit of gore,

leaving the everyday-citizen, in the dark, as a sheer skeleton bone,

I dream such dominants to vanish, into mere thin overhead air,

but also worry, their malice may loam, once a clean and comforting midair.

I dream of a country;

where the trees of coconut, booming bunches of yield,

forming arcs that aim the briny blue sea,

such contours and dimensions of nature’s flair,

as they swing to and fro, swiping the water’s rim,

to croon the melodies of ten-thousands of tales,

indescribable, concealed, conveniently wrapped-up in an era bygone,

in the least, I dream for the saplings to remain,

holding witness to unsettled spiteful mortal pain.

I dream of a country;

where the golden fields of paddy shall behold - with its cumbersome grains impregnated and bold,

the tales of gloom, of thy farmers jinxed and sore - with no names, no titles, no revenue, no homes,

their spouses and daughters, sons, kith and kin - the inheritors of this curse, a livelihood deficient in gains,

with no retort for them to even dimly sustain,

yes, in a country as such, I dream and I dream,

for the fields to chant loud, let thy voices echo,

to the bearers of office, till their lobes would explode – till their guilt may galore,

the tales of those who gave life,

to the field’s grandeur,

now, the same fields of paddy, that saw sunshine in their grower’s hands,

brazenly confined to a pictorial backdrop,

of a movie, a visual in goggle-box - God only knows,

while the farmer’s retort remain suicidal thoughts,

as the grains go rotten inside dripping carryalls,

I dream for this shocking plight of the provider of our diet - to be swiftly reformed,

before more suicides are caught,

the sharecropper who should otherwise be festooned by us all.

I dream of a country;

where no goons shall disrupt amity, by applying their kangaroo law,

for simply being ‘minister-sons’ of identical louts – trading drugs at midnight galore,

with a ‘shameless citizen’, the so-called ‘First’ – brazenly flouting these nauseating flaws,

for, all in all their closets rattle loud, with the skeletons of tainted eons,

yet the voters they take for repeated fleeting ‘joy-rides’ – with assured potential and more,

for a moment I wonder – are people stupid to the core,

or are they helpless in treacherous claws ?

having to stomach gobbledygook by the ones in command - the dumbest we’ve seen in spans,

I dream of such goons, disgusting to the core, vaporize with no trace at all,

yes, the ones never stepped-in, or ever seen a board, or a wall of a school, yet though,

has taken the country to their hands of foul, dictating terms on edified souls,

I dream of an era, like the fresh morning dew,

where such scandalous rogues shall take the place fit for them souls,

if at all they are worth to be borne on the earth,

of an island that once stood tall.

I dream of a country;

where the people aren’t misled,

constantly, in prolonged frames in time,

disguising the horror of billions and trillions - in loans by the global-wide sharks,

with the mask of development vehemently robed - in the minds of lesser-informed folks,

while the reality is certainly not the case of building - but drowning the island evermore,

until the nation in complete, shall be mortgaged away - to the snoops as their tactics may triumph,

in no time the hegemony would vanish away - with their commissions too heavy to carry away,

while the blameless natives, the average ones - will take much longer to even grasp the jigsaw,

I dream of a country where double-dealing as such,

shall never witness daylight, let alone the calm shades of night.

I dream of a country;

where rights may exist,

at least the rudimentary kind,

for its citizenry to be,

always well-informed,

with the right to enquiry,

of those liable folks,

where ‘truth-discoursed-media’ is a much cherished source,

not a throng with bogus labels forced,

as ‘traitors’, by the oppressive force.

I dream, I dream and I dream a stiff dream,

for a country where critics - considered no threat to the throne,

but a national mammon, a pertinent dais,

where truth shall unveil, with no fear of slashed throats,

in-spite-of grave stances – where boldness galore,

a place where a journalist could roam with no mourns,

a place free to condemn mishaps of powerful blokes,

yet not be murdered on the street as morning may approach.

I dream of a country;

where ‘human rights’ hold, a vital and central need,

not confined to a certain breed,

omitted from another cast or creed,

where a/c rooms fill with bottomless greed,

been a spectacle to make ends meet,

but rather an executed essential tool,

where everyone abide by the rules,

a uniform notion being put into place,

and no ‘effective’ may slip through loopholes,

where no one is above the law.

I dream of a country;

where women’s rights soar,

not as reason for revel, when a rape is been caused,

when child abuse, whippings, domestic violence upsurge,

cozy chambers get filled of red-lipstick-womenfolk,

they call themselves ‘activists’, for the voiceless as they say,

yet, they only target their own schemata and fame,

in a day or two, a week, a month or so,

no one stands-up for the needy, the victims abandoned,

and no longer known,

so-called activists disappear like hasty clouds caught in gust,

notions as such should be condemned to the core,

while I dream of a country, where all rights are preserved,

would it be human rights, women’s right, children’s rights or other. 

I dream, I dream and I dream through the night,

sometimes in daylight, with constant delight,

yearning for a country, I could call by its name,

with pride, with drive, with sensation - not disgrace,

not a ‘madhouse’ of abundant dishonorable fakes,

those who have already shattered a huge stake,

I dream that someone would keep a giant step,

to save my country from these imps with no shame,

the cold-blooded murderers who have taken control,

of every inch possible, every shrub, every stone.

I dream of a country;

a country I could call my own and with pride,

where freedom does not limit to a war-less somnolent night,

but a place where freedom to be human shall reside,

to speak, to sleep, to eat and even daydream,

without belts tightened, and no throats dreadfully squeezed,

but where wrongdoers end up, as convicts locked-up,

not the victims ridiculed, as the felons hop, being freed,

such are my dreams of a country yet to be freed.

[Inspired by Meena Kandasamy’s ;  “I Dream Of An English”]

Sunalie Ratnayake is a Sri Lankan Journalist based in USA. She could be reached at ; sunalie.secretandbeyond@yahoo.com