Dapat bang hayaan ang nag-aalab na damdamin
Na animo’y pugon na punong-puno ng nagbabagang uling
Sa pagliyab ay di paaawat, di pasusupil sa daluyong handang humabalos;
May paghahanda man o wala. Maagapan ba ang pag-agos
ng mga luhang ngayon pa lamang makakikita ng liwanag?
Unti-unting nagbabalikwas, nagpupumiglas ang mga pintig
Na para bang di padadaig–
Mga pusong pagód na sa pananahimik:
Siguro nga’y panahon na upang hayaan ang nag-aalab na mga damdamin
Na mala-disyerto ang angking init;
Kailanma’y di mapapawi ng kahit ano pa mang tubig.

in conjunction with #WorldPoetryDay albeit late.



Sur Vie

           Time momentarily stops. The sight of the fierce ball light, announcing its arrival, shining frantically above the horizon. Enthralled by your sweetness—I start to see the beauty you behold, that truly indeed: you only can posses. The languid touch from the surfaced details of your skin that I yearn to touch so dearly; the distinctive smell will never be unearthed from the folds of your body, which with much certainty I know more than mine; the diverse tastes that I may or I may not fear for its vastness and broadness, and; the euphonious melodies you play that I want to hear every now and then. All these, I am familiar with. Run off to the grasslands that is still damped in dew from the morning mist; the butterfly was lured to touch the colorful petals. The farmer starts by plowing his land.

           Behold not: I could only mouth the words I want to speak of your austerity. Halfway through, I feel the seething heat from the midday sun when it’s strongest. As the grime flourishes with greens I consume, and the rainbow that brightens even more the shine. And for awhile, having been facing each other, I have witnessed such that I doubt—that the whole point, perhaps, has been lost. The years spent together, if truth to be told, are confirmations of strife. And that’s what this is: a continuous striking of the metal whilst hot. As you forge me according to my will, I shall take beatings if necessary; nor too soft or too severe. I see the farmer has taken off his oeuvre for his helper’s puddle of mud. I have retracted my finger back; but even words cut through without even wounding you.

           Do not opt for things to be always at the better hand. In my solemn and sincere reverie, there are things I realized that could’ve shoot the stars but had had hit the moon. Take me in your arms as we lay under the afternoon sun—as the orange sea obliterates alongside with the azure of long and wide seas, connecting distances. Never thrive in the shadows of what has passed and never, too, live alone for the second chances this world may offer. We heave from them but only because what matters most is the gift of time: the present. In admittance, we shall seize every opportunity to turn rocks into stones. Intertwined, heated and consented; the scent will linger. At end, the flower will blossom along with the memory of the chance. The farmer harvests what he has sown.

           The rain falls down—leaves dancing as they race towards the ground. The young night seemed vivid than that of the usual; I wish for these years not to wane but to coalesce the both of us. It is my biggest desire to spend the remaining days together. The blanket of stars above with the soil, our bed. “Don’t be afraid,” you told me yourself. Isn’t it like it was just like yesterday? After seven cycles of the sun, a week should have passed. One year later, we have forgotten about this. I hope for the farmer to sell more of what he had harvest.

            The day breaks in and gave new light. Ending the darkest night I’ve ever had; the early bird comes chirping in tune to the music played through. The fowls cackling, regaining their lands.  As a new day unfolds – Hope is a dream that never sleeps. The sun bathing me in its shines, I want to be with you again. Estranged no more; but with courage to meet you.