Memory of Iligan
December 28, 2011
Let us think again of being young,
This time, if it can be said at all,
Without time bothering us.
It’s useless if we have our timepieces
Tick-a-tocking a juju we knew best,
The sound of a creaking bed.
For once in the life of a leaf a stem
Has no purpose but an aid to magic
With which a river becomes mouthful,
Night becomes day, dullness a playhouse,
Wit a baby, whisper a creation.
It happens when a tree sheds its tears,
When the leaves meet their fate above the torrent,
Knowing too well they have lost their hearts.
…
Think of the breeze while we drift across the waters,
Make it noble this time, imperfectly immaculate.
Imagine ourselves carrying refugees in our arms,
The sick, the dying, the homeless and wounded.
Not the tourists we used to dream up with leaves,
Not the poets we cared about becoming;
Not the words with which to glide without wings,
The conceits our nimble hands can craft in darkness.
Not the spiders on deserted rocks, not the shadows
We cast on shores only us knew where.
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