Ode to the master-spinner and / or the nervous eleventh

The decision was yours

To gently retire

From your celebrated foothold

In the "gentlemen's sport";


 
Your eight-hundredth wonder

Made your mark

to glow in gold

In the ancient scrolls of imperial sport.


 
We shan't forget

The way you bore

The vicious stare of Darrell Hair

So quietly and gently, once upon a time.


 
Your innocent and affable smile

remained the same

in times of joy and merriment

as well as in times of bewilderment


 
These lines shan't be an elegy

For retired Murali

Who still smiles

in our test-cricket dream.


 
Being the constant eleventh

In the batting lineup

Your magic wrist made for spinning

Worked nervous wonders


 
You invented,

Your own fours and sixes

To save our souls

In nearly lost battles.


 
Despite the bars of ethnicity

Every Sri Lankan cricket fan

Loved you, adored you

and Ignored your nationality.


 
And that's how in a way

You made the bridge of piece

Among the quarreling nations

At least in cricket.


 
So let me crown thee

The sporty emblem

of peace and harmony

in the purl of east, the rising miracle of Asia.


 

 

 

Glory of the Sri Lankan History in a Nutshell

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The Harvest of Freedom

They've ripped their "crops"

The "first" after those years of tears

Fresh and partly alive

Just like their blooming hopes and wishes.


 
While those happy hunters;

The gifted earls of a blue paradise

Celebrate their fresh freedom,

The "harvest" loses the final struggle

Gradually as their territory shrinks.


 
The sides have been flipped

From land to the waters,

from the runners to the swimmers.

The ring of ever-shrinking territory.


 
In cities they marvel,

Admire and taste

The victory, the freedom,

the tears and even life