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Mahagama Sekera

Prabuddha Part V

And thereafter he saw.
He saw the thousands
starve and sweat
to build mansions.

And thereafter he saw.
He saw the thousands
starve and sweat
to fill those same houses.
And thereafter he saw.
He saw them fight
saw them compete with one another
for more power, higher office, bigger position.
He saw thereafter
all the invisibles around him
visible
present.

It was a dream mansion:
Yasodha’s house
with its white wall
steel gates
marbled floors
covered with thick red carpets,
finely crafted furniture
innumerable artifacts and ornaments
ornate chandeliers
from exotic lands
and when he saw these comforts
Prabuddha felt diminished,
the fairytale dream dissolved
it fell and shattered
on the hardened earth
of unforgiving noontime light.

‘If only I could be one of them!’
That was the beginning of another dream-tale.

‘I see now the distance, Yasodha,
the chasm between us;
all I have is my birthright of poverty
and nothing like this splendor you own,
do you understand,
I have nothing,
nothing like this!’

‘And yet I love you!’

And so he climbed;
up the stairs he went
with her
hand in hand
and his soul took flight
encased in shoes well-polished
firmly boxed
in shirt and trouser, tie and coat.

From high above he saw the city
the houses tall and short,
the wide avenues and narrow lanes
and the masses
scurrying along, hither and thither
running the races of their choice
he saw the tiny cars
stopped on either side
in shapes never imagined before,
and as he reached the top floor
there was a dint of pride:
‘I too am one of them!’

Morning Star

"Look not for me in my poem.
You and I, and all of us
are journeying towards a morning star

shining at the far end of a dim sky,
knowing and not knowing that we are.

Someday, all of you
will encounter the great mountains

and steep cliffs
I meet along the way.

When you stumble and lose your way
among the many traps along the path,

when your body is soiled
by the mud showered by untruths,

when, bludgeoned, you cling
to the earth with weak hands,

when that day you weep helplessly
just as I have wept,

my poetry will becomes yours.
Friend! Then, without searching,

find yourself and not me in my verse.
When the blood that flows from my feet
as they break upon thorns and hard gravel,

points out the correct path from those that lead astray,
and you come to your journey’s end

to find the morning star,
if you happen to do so before me,

a felicitation of flowers will bloom for your feet.
Among those petals, find me.