>Bits and Bobs..

>

..is a horrible title for a blog post. This is what happens when you procrastinate long enough and neglect your blog shamefully.

A bit unsure what to post about. You know those awkward silences which fall in mid-conversation. Well, this is one of those. Only, it’s happening between posts.

Feeling magnificently emo these days, but hearing of everything going on in the war front tends to make your problems pale and petty in comparison. Trying to focus on the bigger picture and help/donate in any way possible.

Deecee posted a link to this site which has information about all the organizations which are helping out. Sach posted a link to Surani’s blog, who has also put up more information about helping IDP’s. And Indi’s blogged about another organization, assisting with aid and supplies.

It’s definitely our turn to do our bit, please donate in whatever way possible. Every little bit helps.

I was looking for a particular poem and I found this by the same author instead. It’s beautiful, poignant and simple, and sums up everything I want to say. Only, far more evocatively than I ever could.

The Warzone in Sri Lanka

There is a place
of burning.

A land where the Vanni-sun flares,
licking shelled palm trees that dot the horizon, straggling into the sky
without a crown of leaves; headless, charred;
where the ground is covered in scrub, swathed in fine sienna dust,
and houses roofless, walls bullet-ridden, rice fields scorched by the sun, burnt by armies, stand voiceless, and
dogs three-legged, maimed by landmines,
wander around scratching shelled houses for food.

(Through this, a hobbled road;
with places to step-off on to,
meeting points, other pathways;
that no longer exists,
ran.)

Now on this no-longer-road,
wind-propelled, the fire lifts, swooshing into the air;
inflaming
kerosene slathered
burnt scrub wood, skeleton leaves, bone cinders, bigot sparks;
travelling in every direction,
to burn everywhere.

No longer one place

Ramya Jirasinghe

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