Night of Ditwar – By Harold Gunatillake
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The wind rose like a thief in the dark,
Whispering ruin, leaving its mark.
Villages crumbled, the earth gave way,
Dreams were buried before the day.
Children slept in innocence deep,
Never to wake from their fragile sleep.
Homes dissolved in the cyclone’s roar,
Families scattered, forevermore.
No food, no shelter, no guiding hand,
Survivors wander a broken land.
The night remembers, the silence cries,
Ditwar’s sorrow beneath the skies.
The Homeless Dawn
The mountain slid, the rivers wept,
Through shattered huts the cyclone crept.
Hundreds gone in a breath of night,
Stars extinguished, no morning light.
Mothers clutching the air in despair,
Fathers searching for children who are not there.
The fields lie barren, the granaries bare,
Hunger and grief are the gifts they share.
Yet in the ashes, a spark remains—
Hope that rises despite the chains.
Though Ditwar mourns, the world must see,
Their pain, their strength, their dignity.
May all who lost their lives in the storm find peace. May they be released from suffering, reborn without pain, and rest peacefully forever. My thoughts are with all those affected.
Harold Gunatillake
