MIGRANT PRINCE (1972)
Behind him a Kingdom sliding to decay
dragging with it lost childhood, sheltered youth
Before him alien shores, an unknown bay,
another Vijaya he ventures south.
A strange bird dreams on a dry bough; marsupials
lift liquid eyes in silence, questioning
a stranger's footfall. Here no leopards snarl -
do beasts turn also from the pain of living?
And is this pleasant landscape, then, to be
the chosen setting for his spirit's death,
the hammering media's brash mythology
to breathe on him immobilizing breath?
Somewhere in this enchanted woodland brims
the secret well; and there her golden thread
his lost Muse sits and spins, and as she spins
the fallen blossoms listen for his tread.
False step to east or west, and desert grows
between these two. Look, landward from the sea
light footprints lead, through glades alive with shadows:
Others have passed this way ahead of me.
Perhaps in a lost age another kindled
here, in this glade, from that bird's dip and flight
or from the shape the moon took as it dwindled,
bright myth to lie beside on a cold night
or built a legend he could crawl into
and warm his blood to health and fruitfulness.
Lost myths, turned rubble now beneath the new
towering chainstore, rammed under the express-
way. I a wanderer in this land,
turned by necessity to new material
strange to my eyes, uncertain in my hand,
shall I be fortunate enough to call
into forms unimagined in my youth
new life? Create in joy, here, on Death's lip?
Another Vijaya, I venture south
here to reshape my art, refit my ship.
(Yasmine Gooneratne: 1973)
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