Red paint splashed all over the room, Smell of salt and metal, Funny how one could almost think blood has been spilled tonight in a calm household. A guy on all fours, Begging, crying- "Not my Son, not him He's still eighteen" And a grim lover at the counter, Starring at the mess on the kitchen floor Flesh, and more "Red paint" Boom! The once pale body, laid on the floor Gives not a single twitch His Ken-doll lips - blue, now tainted with wet streaks of Red, A young man hovers over the broken pieces of a marble statue, Stands and walks back, A snail leaving dark trails of revenge, Sense of smug pride strewn across the white face,…
Tag: #RotaractArts
සුළං රැල්ලේ පාව එන්නේ ඔහුගෙ නාමය වේ…
2016 - 11 - 03 හෙලයේ මහා ගාන්ධර්වයාණෝ ලෙස විරුදාවලි ලත් ආචාර්ය පණ්ඩිත් අමරදේව සූරින් දැයෙන් සමුගෙන අද දිනට වසර 07ක් ඉක්ම ගොසිනි!!! 1927 වර්ෂයේ දෙසැම්බර් 5 වන දින දොන් ගිගෝරිස් පෙරේරා සහ මැගී වෙස්ලිනා මෙන්ඩිස් ට දාව මොරටුවේදි උපත ලද වනක්කුවත්ත මිටිවඩුගේ දොන් ඇල්බට් පෙරේරා, ප්‍රකට ගායන හා සංගීතඥයෙකු ලෙස ශ්‍රී ලංකාවේදී හඳුනාගනු ලබන්නේ ඔහුගේ ආරෝපිත නාමය වූ "අමරදේව" නමිනි. අමරදේව යන නාමය මහාචාර්ය එදිරිවීර සරච්චන්ද්‍රයන් විසින් ඔහුට ප්‍රදානය කරන ලද නාමයයි. විමලා අමරදේවයන්, එතුමාගේ දයාබර බිරිඳ, සසර පුරුද්දට මෙන් එතුමාගේ බිරිඳ වන්නට ම පෙර භවයන්ගේත්, මේ භවයෙත්, මතුවටත් උපදිනු ඇතැයි මට සිතේ. අමරදේවයන්ගේ හඬ මාධුර්යයෙන් මත්ව සිටින සෑම රසික හදවතක් ම පෙර නොවු විරූ අන්දමක කම්පාවකට…
The Fool & the Priest
Once upon a time,lived a fool and a priest.Fool, who desire crime,with a heart of a beast. The Priest save him no prayer,but some wine & crumbs of bread.For his heart so heavy with desire,flames ignite the skin while he bled. Once upon a time,the Priest loved the Fool.Oneday,he forgot his church rhymes,and that was a change of rule. The Fool said,"My dear, dear FedyaI please to kill."And everybody could swear,it was wet in red down the hill Rtr. Chamodi Peduruarachchi
For My Mother
You are my everything Mom, You are the infinite sky of my life. You are the deep sea in my life. And you are the rainbow in my life. If you were not my mom, my life would have been in thick darkness. If you were not my mom, I would have lost the spirit of my life. Mom, You are my everything... -Rtr. Rebeka Hewavitharana
Purest Love: A Baby’s Embrace
She gazes upon me,with pearls of radiance,inviting me to a world sublime,where words fall short,yet her eyes weave tales,as profound as the endless sea,A timeless reminder of ‘love’. At times I ponder,how can this tiny soul,grasp the feelings of all?A love so gentle,yet fierce in its claim.A love so precious,spanning a thousand miles wide. - Rtr. Raziya Lareef
Month in Review: August & September
Yes, exams are coming up but the Month in Review team couldn't resist updating you on some of the most exciting and interesting events of RotaractArts, so take a break, and read away! -Co-Editors. Club Service Avenue The inaugural project of Club Service Avenue, ‘Sweet Grass’, by the Rotaract Club of University of Colombo, Faculty of Arts, was held at Viharamahadevi Park on August 19, 2023, the event was a remarkable success. The park transformed into a vibrant hub of engaging activities, showcasing the club members’ dedication and organizational skills. From interactive games to artistic stalls, ‘Sweet Grass’; brought the community together in a memorable way. Kudos to the club for this fantastic initiative, and we are excited to see…
About Love
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…
The War on Love
When we were littleIt was differentHand in handFreely we ranWe laughed at the voices We didn't talk aboutThe great riftTwo worlds but oneWe lived, we lovedWe defied the voices I don't remember whenBut it changedWe fought but in vainHer people, My peopleThe voices screamed Torn between love and fearTorn by our differencesShe lost so muchI lost too muchThe voices claimed victory We are older nowWith children of our ownWe whisper to themHate different, hate herWe are the voices - Rtr. Batya Peter
Whispers of Love
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…
Aesthetic of the Unfinished
Oftentimes, the indecipherable aesthetic of unfinished art baffles me. With each brush stroke that adorns my canvas, a melancholic numbness engulfs my being; for everytime it finds a new form It's current mien dies with it. I snap photographs, hang them on walls—an innuendo of past lives of an artwork. Taking one glimpse of the "aesthetic of the unfinished", I adorn it with layers of new paint— for you must convey a moral to the world. A twist in my heart: a longing to witness a finished artwork, yet mourning over it's passing miens. What's really an artwork but a graveyard of it's past forms? Rtr. Michelle Perera