Lucky Ones
Beige-brown logs of decaying flesh float on the river;
Enumerable, abject.
The bough decapitated;
Near the zenith.
How long? how many more?
The elders wonder as they stare agape;
As the women on the riverbank,
Wallop their bosoms, wailing in a cohort, covered in sanguine red;
The chosen color of fate in this bed of feminocracy
A bleak country sans a vision or a voice;
As decapitated bodies float in the river,
Corpses nobody wants, nobody arrests;
As the bodies float to the jaws of a second death;
In the hands of slithering predators;
In the hallways of muddy banks; bewitching waters;
In a harrowing twilight.
Then one day, from the source of the river
Comes a speckle of hope,
A body, a bullet piercing a makeshift fontanelle,
Some unknown widow's husband, A mother's son,
Leaving behind a rare legacy.
A face that solemnly bequeaths to the onlookers, a morceau of hope.......
Two eyes, a nose and two lips that matter so much,
A burial, a much looked forward burial;
For one of the lucky ones.
poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
Added by Poetry Lover
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