Though I have never seen you,You dwell in the quiet recesses of my heart,Like flowers blooming after the storm’s embrace. I call you God of Rain,For your presence is a tender melody,Whispered softly through the heavens above. Are you real,Or merely a fleeting dream I’ve yet to meet?Still, I wait beneath the cloud-stained sky,Hands open to the hush of falling grace,Hoping one day your rain will find me. -Rtr. Tharushi Dineshika
Life blooms when you begin to live.When you smile through the pain,And let your heart brim with sunshine. Ce n'est pas toujours romance,Sometimes, it’s the souls we stumble upon:Those who fold us into their warmthlike we were always meant to belong. Family. Friends. Strangers.Even the quiet boywho meets your gaze with a blush. Life is fleeting.So love,boldly,gently,as much as your heart can hold. -Rtr. Senali Senanayake
He bloomed like the yellow flowers on the street, Next to the pile of rotten leaves and weed. I do not remember the name, I knew once when I was younger, More innocent and stupid. The petals were far apart, And there were no pretty butterflies to suck its nectar. I went to smell it, for the bright yellow enticed me, But there was nothing. All I smelt was the wet concrete of the road, And my feet with slippers were covered in mud. The rain poured from above, crashing onto my frail umbrella And the wind started to blow. But the petals never fell, And I didn't want to go. -Rtr. Vibhavee Sarathchandra
“If I ever were to lose you, I’d surely lose myself” Someone once asked me, “What does love mean to you?”. Simple as it may seem and yet only a fool would pretend to know the answer to a question of that nature I thought. For what man or woman is capable of stringing together the words necessary to provide such a nuanced response? But am I not human? Am I not allowed to feel? Am I not allowed to have a perspective that is subjectively my own, I wondered, unsure if I wanted to respond at first. We sat in silence until I softly replied. I think love is a great many things. It is the bearer of fruit.…
Love is diverse. If we think from the beginning, our lives start with our mother's love. We are bound first by the love of our parents and siblings. I am not about to talk about that love, but that doesn't mean it is not worth it. This is about the love that can create a heart illusion at the first sight of someone you have never met before. My effort is to tell you how to love someone the way I feel. Love knows no bounds, whether it is owned or not. But the love of those who love without trying to gain it is amazing. Simply put, before saying I love you, you must have an idea of the…
On MarriageA coy smile from the bride, a shy grin from the groom. The moment they’ve waited for their whole lifetimes is really happening. One year down the line, a new addition; four more years and another one. The two become four. And what of love? Well, see it's complicated... the husband goes silent, saying “Yes” to what the wife says is the way to survive. Happy wife happy life. The wife, she’s overwhelmed with her career, looking after her kids and making a home for them. Heart’s bitter, the husband seems to lay around all weekend and do nothing of the housework. That’s the woman’s job he says. Inside he’s crumbling from work pressure, wracking his brain thinking; how…
I’m seven years old, sitting amidst grey walls, staring at the smiling old woman. She tells me to smile and that I look prettier when I do—psychologist; too heavy of a word for such a young child. She tells me everything will be fine, but it will take time. Smiling takes less effort, I learned, and I keep that in mind for the rest of my life. I love you, I whisper to her because she does understand. And she does care, she does give her ear to the dilemma of a seven-year-old sad a little too early in her life. I’m nine years old when I walk into my mother crying. Her face was blotched with the weight of…
In the broad fabric of human emotions, there is a timeless composition known as enduring love. Beyond passing fancies, it is an eternal masterpiece, embellished with the grandeur of bygone ages and woven into the fabric of our common human experience. Consider a tale of love that unfolds gracefully, like the pages of a beloved novel. This is the core of enduring love: a symphony of emotions that transcends time. It's the flutter of an unspoken yearning, the closeness of shared secrets, and the exquisite thrill of a single, lingering touch. In a society that moves at dizzying pace, enduring love asks us to slow down and immerse ourselves in the art of genuine connection. Contemplate the tragic love story…
My parents say I was a pretty babyPeople had turned back and staredPraised them for making;A beautiful baby girl Soon School turned the praise to tauntsAnd Home turned the taunts to cracksI get the smell of zinca familiar metallic taste The blood dries on a crumpled tissueI drop the blade I used.I carry abandoned cities in my ribsAbused borders on my thighs I look at myself in the mirrorI’ve turned my face into a riotMy hands are a civil warIn between my knuckles are small coloniesAs rich in culture that castes me out I hold myself at night as I rock myself to sleepTelling myself no man will love me.After all, what man wants to lie in bed and watch…