The gentle rustle of mountain spirits Unspool memory as the lamplight leaps Into a sudden dance: once a child He had watched his father clearing grass Grown wild; he had sought and staked His kinship with the sower's stance And drove the plough with his bare hands.
Up in the sky he had scanned the slopes Of his father's mountains: gently winding Down, the river ran from the bubbling spring And split and multiplied across the heaving Fields so richly pied with fruits And ferns and flowers; now scourged by dry Winds whipped by the sun's thieving eye.
Midnight under the cold white moon And dim, dying stars, he returns and wonders Still at the curious call of dark birds, The plop of frogs on a quiet pond, cicadas Crying about the trees, the swish of scythes At harvest time, and the boy that ran Singing down the winding mountain slopes.
At dawn, through the clearing fog, steel Structures rise close to the sky, dig Deep between the mountain's horns, suck From its stones its majestic core of power. In time, the springs will die, and all Will genuflect before the powerful spires.
In time they will not remember, but perhaps When they grow old, they will see visions Of Cuernos de Negros in their dreams.
Source: A Habit of Shores, ed. Gemino H. Abad, University of the Philippines Press, 1999.
Last Edit: Oct 31, 2008 1:48:20 GMT 2 by shayepoet