Asela AbeywardeneWarm, soft, brown soil of mine
No shipped cold hard white marble
Parched, tired fingers – also mine
Michelangelo’s discarded chisel
Does not suffice
Beautified, refined you need not be
In death, in memory, in life
You were sun scorched black-brown
Tired, forgotten, trod upon –
How now to be ethereal, serene?
Your son of charred parts
Too broken for resurrection
Rubber seared into flesh on that tyre pyre
Too hideous for temple walls
To be sculpted on altars
Too sinful for worship or prayer –
This crude artefact of warm, brown soil
Moulded by fingers
Pulled by heartstrings of mine
In memory, in reverence
Of lullabies, breast milk
Should suffice
I console myself
Though I have seen
I have known
Otherwise
