Monuments – By Kamala Wijerathna

The bus sweeps past the swinging trees

And the road unwinds long and cloud

The chassis creates with the load

And jots to a by road. (1)

The bus stops for a moment to load

And I see the writing on the halt

A wayside monument etched in gold.

“IN MEMORY OF MY SON” I get a jolt. (2)

The legend goes on, on every bus

Stand a new name every time but

 The story’s old “To the hero

Who fell the north erected by

Father, mother and next of kin” (3)

More than a dozen names penetrated my mind.

But I remember the one common to all

“Bandara” master of the soil

Some of those who teased out paddy from this land (4)

They would have ploughed this soil

Gathered the  harvest at reaping time

Followed their fathers with the paddy in bins

And sat by the hearth for the new rice

Served steaming and scented by a mother’s fond hands. (5)

While the Koha sang on the reabadu trees

The inscriptions hug the white walls

And the bus swings in and out of halts.

I gaze at the unwinding miles of the road

And try to make the broken images whole (6)

Vague shapes rise undefined infront of me

A farmer in a muddied loin cloth haunts me

And a housewife with billowing sleeves and string of beads

Stare at me out of the unwinding road

And their faces are stern with unshed tears.(7)