Manjaree By Isuru Chamara Somaweera

 


We shouldn’t have gone.
Ever since we went there,
ThePicca smells bad.
Not like before,
I close the windows
Forthe picca smell.
I have no strength to cut
The picca plant.
Mother still offers
a handful of piccain the evening,
to the Lord Buddha
of our Dhamma School days.
You drink Jasmine tea
to be slim.
Jehan’s sister
pinspicca garlands to her hair
when she goes to the kovil
Do you remember
Coming to the Dhammaschool
With picca flowers in the small weed basket
And another one in your pencil box
For your hair?
We shouldn’t have gone
To the picca mal ceremony.
When I recall those faces
I get scared.
Pushing, and fighting
screaming and crying
telling tales of woe,
they threw handfuls of picca
at the face of the Buddha.
Helicopters showered us
withpicca.
We stepped on
old and fresh picca flowers
along the way.
I felt vomitish
For the strong picca smell.
Manjaree,
we sink
into the bottom of a picca flower basket,
Its petals are like dog’s teeth.
Its smell suffocates.
Manjaree,
This is not a poem.
Piccasmells bad.
I’m scared
when you said
you liked the picca mal ceremony.

 

Translated by Thilini Prasadika

Eng.404 students, Department of English, University of Peradeniya.

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