Once again I find myself at the theatre,
once again the theatricals,
and in this dramatic world
of scripts and players,
dialogues and soliloquies,
tragedies, comedies and
all that fall in between,
I know I should not complain.
I know of the back and forth,
the false starts, the prompting
I can pick the sterling performances
from the pedestrian,
I know the passengers, the props,
the backstage team,
for I have played this game when I've had to,
sat and watched when I chose or could
turned and left at times.
but this,
this drama in several acts,
these players prompted to read
from a well-crafted script,
this well-rehearsed unfolding
of plot, intent and climax,
the make-up and the practiced expressions -
does not provoke disgust,
as would a poor performance.
Instead a fire is kindled in my heart,
and taking that Promethean instrument,
I steal away,
visit endless nights of discontent
lanced with the light of a firefly,
sad histories interrupted by the heroics
of simple men and women,
a railway station, a bar,
an empty courtroom,
I burn cobwebs and rehabilitate rebellion
in the faint light of this tender candle
I peer into faces aged with reason and resolve,
I mine from the unchanging gaze
the sparks of romance,
gather continents of desire
resurrect utopia,
and bathed in this moonlight of solidarity,
I reconsider the forgotten maps of freedom,
their pathways, the road blocks
and escape routes.
I visit a temple,
breathe the fragrance of Araliya,
Sal and sweet Jasmine,
untouched yet by the acrid smell
of gunpowder,
for the bombs are yet to erupt on the altar.
I take a young girl's dream and
dance along a stream,
through a paddy field
into the bluest sky
and along the curve of a rainbow.
And again and again,
as I wander,
that flame takes me home,
to a girl and a story book.
And so, inquisitor,
let me to my reading.
* Written during an ‘inquiry’ into certain allegations made by the Divaina editorial staff at Upali Newspapers Ltd., sometime in late 2003.
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