Dilantha Gunawardana

A life of prayer rooted to a life simple
Donning a coconut white wimple
Covering her breasts is a rugged wooden cross
As lay dreams were rendered a toss
A crusader of a patriarch church
In the shadow of Golgotha's crucified perch
Unconditional her heart's true anthem
As she flaunts a virgin draping of gypsum
A submissive soul with no power to wield
Only the solemnity of prayer to yield
No masses to lead no confessions to soak
No crimson carpets to graze not even a scarlet cloak
A true champion in the bleakest of land
As she scampers like an ant with a cross in hand
She will listen to the reverberating tales of woe
She will work relentlessly in ravines of war
She is an incarnate angel on earth
Lighting up the fires of man's flickering hearth
She is a darling to the scampering children
Even a crying shoulder to the detouring women
She will be remembered in folios of history
As a soul who led the downtrodden to victory
From the merciless clutches of poverty
To golden shores of serendipity