neatly laid out on an ornate table
and with the flourish of a Parker Pen
there is no verse that I can write.
When I come home after
work
with you inside a crowded
train upon a crudely unpacked empty cigarette pack
with a pencil stub
there is a poem to be scribbled.
And yet, comrade!
that poem dedicated to youand you alone
will escape --
most of you
will not read today,
this I know.
But there will come a day
when in a kinder worldyou will read it
with so much more love,
this too I know.
*Translation of a much-quoted set of lines penned by the incomparable Mahagama Sekara
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