The hands on the clock stop

Yesterday, I got a call from someone asking if I'd be interested in doing a voice-over for a documentary film. It turned out that the film was about the Sri Lankan issue, from the civilians' point of view.

Needless to say, I agreed. So as of wednesday afternoon, I will be reading a piece titled 'My Island is bleeding'. I hope to do a lot more for the refugees than just lend my voice, but I'll save the talking for after I've actually done what I intend to do.

Still, the whole of yesterday had me restless, the way I usually am just before I write something. The thoughts finally came out, in a song/poem. I'm sharing it with anyone who cares to read it.


The hands on the clock stop
And I don't know how to get to you
I'm running to the red rock
It's redness shines like blood on dew

The breeze in the air freeze
The smell of guns, more than the sound
I'm hiding in a hollow tree
And praying you'll be around

The stain of the morning rain
Is too much for me to bear
I'm falling into your pain
You told me once to beware

The land has turned to quicksand
And I'm drowning all alone
If only I could hold your hand
I know you'd take me home

The hands on the clock stop
The hands on the clock stop
The hands on the clock stop


So that's what I wrote. I don't claim to know what the refugees are going through, and until know, I've kept my civilian distance. But we've all experienced loss in some form, and a part of us is always buried with our tragedy.