For all my life I’ve been working towards to be that To be this, to be him but most of all to be that Hey, that old man only had a piece of sarong on him He was shaking his walking stick, and was dancing to his tune He’s come to us kids to sing, climbing down the mountain And he was singing the glory of Saala in the summer time සාල වනේ හී…
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A man keeps running, deep in the forest He’s fit and he’s clad in an athlete’s garment He passes tall trees and low bush in the valley, he runs on foot paths along winding streams Balanced, well-focused on each step he takes, he bothers least even of his own grand dreams The one-eyed magpie sits on the footpath reflecting Sublime she is, she goes on with her own daily routine Never is she bothered…
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That odour, which has a blend of strong smell of cinnamon from Sri Lanka, started haunting me again. It however is surely not cinnamon, perhaps a combination of eucalyptus, perhaps both have a similar smell. That strong odour someway connects my thoughts to George for some reason. George apparently died a few years back and I did not get a chance to see him. The last time I spoke to him over the phone, I…
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