On the shores of a Sri Lankan beach
I stood dreaming of the habitual horrors
Of a civil war, that swiftly swallowed lives,
Like the stroppy sea with its surging waves.
There appeared an ethnic engineering base
Behind the turbulence of waters, changing colors,
Like the warring groups with varied whims.
My touring thoughts transformed into nightmares.
The ghosts of lives, killed in casual, military mode
With force native and borrowed from genetic neighbors,
Rose above the waves,in a mind boggling milky dance,
Choreographed by a dirty strain of death makers.
Soon as the waves receded,the ghosts retreated too,
As if to fix the shores,for a fresh flow of feuds to rue.
P.Chandrasekaran.
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