Awata Thibunath Nisasala Sanda Matha Lyrics

Though there were clouds, the moon above stayed calm and still
And it was so lovely to see
Even if I have no one else
The love you gave me is as gentle as that moon
So very gentle

That day, when you stepped up onto the wedding poruwa
In that blessed moment, your two feet rising onto it

That day, when you stepped up onto the wedding poruwa
In that blessed moment, your two feet rising onto it

When I saw you fall, fainting, all your senses gone

It was pity that rose up and took hold of my heart

From age to age, from one lifetime to the next
Sorrow and tears are not what we are meant to inherit

From age to age, from one lifetime to the next
Sorrow and tears are not what we are meant to inherit

So that the withered flower petals may bloom open once more
Tomorrow a sun will rise over our world

A man is looking up at the night sky, remembering the woman he loved and the day they were married. Clouds have drifted across the moon, but the moon stays calm above them, and that quiet, unbothered light is exactly how he remembers her love. In Sinhala song the moon is the standing image of a gentle, soothing kind of beauty, light that softens the dark instead of dazzling you, so when he says her love was as gentle as that moon, he means it was tender and undemanding, the kind that asks for nothing back. Even now, when he feels he has no one else, that is what he holds on to.

From there his mind goes back to the poruwa, the small decorated platform a Sri Lankan couple stands on during the wedding ceremony. He pictures her stepping up onto it, her two feet rising onto the poruwa in that blessed moment, the happiest beginning two people can have. And then, in the same breath, comes the memory that breaks the heart: he saw her fall, fainting, her senses slipping away. The day that began their life together is tied in his memory to the day he watched her go. What he felt in that moment was not anger or even grief at first, but a deep, helpless tenderness, a pity that rose up and took over his whole heart.

The last lines are where he tries to find his footing again. Sorrow and tears, he tells himself, are not what we are born to carry from one age to the next, from one life to the next. In a Buddhist way of seeing things, lifetimes come and go, and pain is not meant to be our permanent inheritance. So he reaches for an image of renewal: just as withered petals can open again, tomorrow a new sun will rise over their world. It is the gentlest kind of hope, a man steadying himself after a loss, telling himself that the dark of this night is not the end, that morning, in some form, will come.