O River of the Sky, tell me now,
Reveal the true line of the Sinhala kings somehow.
Declare that long before Great King Mahāsammata came,
This land was our inheritance, our ancestral claim.
Beyond our own solar system’s light,
To Akaniṭṭha Brahma Realm shining bright,
If any living being dwells so far away,
Our shelter once embraced them on a distant day.
Even now, O lotus blooming on the lake,
Speak the truth for history’s own sake.
Too many speak of our past with lies they weave;
At least let the Moonstone tell what we should believe.
A people are rising who cannot see
The worth of their nation, their land, their legacy.
The final lamp of our race went dark at Wellassa’s cry;
If it still can be rekindled, let it burn once more on high.
Then let even your sorrowful sigh proclaim,
Do not think that truth itself is shame.
Count it not as burden, suffering, or sin—
Tell me, before I die, shall I ever again
Behold upon this sacred earth arise
A true Rakshasa Sinhala before my eyes?
