Your exotic pot

of ‘WHITE ROSE’ hibiscus

has never known the Island sun

or monsoon rain.

So memory for you, my son,

is without green history.


As glass and stone

have framed your dark eyes

and all you know

is that land that falls asleep

in soft white pyjamas

with snowflakes to muffle

its heavy breathing.


1 guess you can keep on

asking angrily:

do you have to hang up your story

like a butcher's side of beef ?

Why another poem ?

Why roll the rock

from the mouth of the tomb,

what’s there in shadows, dry bones,



I raise my tired eyes

from the title of a poem

still new, fierce and lamenting:

"The Rain Doesn’t Know Me Any More"

To remember, to remember

the rain drops

bigger than my chldhood eyes,

those blue fists

fast and liquid as a therapist’s.


How the good earth churned

its red dust bowl,

burgeoned to a riot of batik,

and the sky caught the colors below

like a memory.


Copyright Rienzi Crusz

(Sri Lanka and Canada)


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