this morning

I heard the morning sweeper
sweeping like a brush stick on the drums
by a jazz musician
I heard my neighbor's alarm
like an ambulance
on some midnight street
carrying a half dead man.
I felt a poetry at the nib
of my ink less pen
I heard silence crying goodbye
sitting on my staircase
as i broke it with my cough
I heard my sister talking
in her dream to me
"Brother, you dont need to be the man"
I felt the cold of dead corpses
in the poetry book
"Waking is Another Dream",
(Corpses of Sri Lankan Tamils)
I saw the foot prints of Goddess Emoinu
upon my naked chest
I heard the old woman
from my ktchen window
cursing her sons
as the milk steamed away
as i stirred the coffee
with a spoonful of hot water
I saw the morning getting readied
to come out of the hole of my pena
like a mouse
I heard the writer whispering
on her dead bed
"This land is my father's"
I heard me telling me
"recover my holy child"
I heard all the lovers snoring
on each other's face
i saw my bed carrying away
the marks of my back
I felt this poetry can never be complete
as another morning awaits me