I was in a remote jungle and this shrewd Lumberjack
Who brought me to this matchwood factory?
These heartless machines break us into splinters.
I was happy when they put a black paste on my head and I thought it's a crown.
We brothers assorted in boxes and sent to the market.
Unfortunately this box of matches bought a drunkard.
And every five minutes he strikes us and lit a cigarette.
We all burned within a day and our ashes cursed the Lumberjack.
What a wondeful story. But sad in its own way too. This is vintage nimal dunuhinga. Exceptional write, my friend. Warm regards, Sandra
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I can only suggest that this is a Labour Day poem, even if you do not live in the States. This is just brilliant Nimal a very power statement made very powerfully.