Days have turned into utter darkness
The crescent moon turns blood-shot
The fisher men on the high-seas
Have caught no fish;
‘Cause the naval gun-boats
Wrongly Suspect us to be sea-tigers!
We return home, empty handed
With “criminal records” for having toiled in our sea.
On the land too we have no rest
Daily we are under threat
Our fully-formed muscled shoulders
Is a threat to the SL ARMY?
They harass, even arrest and then kill us
They taunt us as…
“Tigers in sarongs and T-shirts”.
What good would it be to talk peace?
When we don’t see it on the ground?
What good would it be to beg please?
When that means to be shot down?
So we plead for the right to our sea
Where our forefathers have braved the waves
We refuse to bow down until you see
Our point of view of not being slaves.
Our mothers have waited on the shore
Only to collect our bullet-ridden bodies
Our wives have starved with honour
But their breasts have no milk to feed!
So we plead, and ask the right to our sea
Where our forefathers have braved the waves
What good would it be to talk peace?
When we don’t see our freedom on the waves?
Is this the peace you talk about?
In a
far flung foreign land!
If that is peace Mr Diplomat
Then give us not “peace” we plead!
Simply ask the Sinhalas to leave
Our belovéd land and the sea
Heads held high on our mother soil
With honourable hands we will toil.
What good would it be to talk peace?
When we don’t see it on the ground?
What good would it be to beg please?
When that means to be shot and killed?
