A germ of anger is whispered by the wind
To the heart of the calm ocean
Where it was seeded at its deepest
And soon grew into a whirlwind,
Churning and whirling and churning
And whirling in dizzying swiftness
Until it turned into a gigantic oceanwave
That surged ferociously with inexorable force
Over the bounds and edges of the brown islands.
Hearken we did to the sweeping wrath
Of the roaring mammoth oceanwave
Rolling from the vortex of the ring of fire,
Ravaged entire stretches of sandy beaches,
Drowned the falsetto cries and moans spurting
Out the crevices, potholes and mouths of earth,
Seeped into nooks and caverns of the heart and soul,
Pricked the conscience and sensibilities of the race—
Turbulent rivers of the peoples’ uprisings.
Across the lands and seas of the benighted race
Throb … throb … throb … throb the dream
Long buried in the breast of misery,
Long silenced by the deluge of night,
Seeking for the long lost voice of defiance
To sound like the crescendo hymn of harpstrings
That explodes into shrapnels of rebel music..!
Every bit of its tremor felt as warmhearted touch
Of the long-dreamt dream of national liberation
Nested in years of agony and pains of slavery.
Behold the bouncing onrushing throngs of people!
Racing after the streaming glow of dawn,
Upraising thousand torches in their hearts,
Resounding in chorus the song of freedom!
Echoing their baritone cry for justice, their shrill cry
Demanding release from the bonds of gnawing poverty!
Press your ears on the veneer walls and sagging roofs
Of the bunkhouses, their transient homes, and feel—
Feel the pulsating wounds of their tragic fate.
Marissa’s words recount the daily scourges
Mirrored in the tears dammed in her eyes:
The horror of impending demolition by government—
Considered eyesore to be hidden from the eyesight
Of the visiting Holy Pope in January next year—a clear
Outcome of criminal neglect of their plight by the State.
And tales that leak from the lips of Jennelyn, a housewife
From barangay Baras, reveal a tone of protest, “Good if
A livelihood awaits us in the place where we’re going
To be transferred. ‘Tis very hard to be jobless. . .no means
Of living. And the politician’s promises are not fulfilled!
Their words should have been matched with action!“.
Then this apt synthesis from a tricycle driver: “It’s hard
To be poor. We’re always the victims of tragedies”.
And so after a year of being in underwater of memories
Of the storm surge that denied them life and the delight
Of sunrise, the little hopes that glisten in the rainshowers
And mists, they’ve dared to catch with open palms upraised,
Their lips quivering with wrath that have closed them into fists!
Tightly clasping, waving high the banner of invincible Unity,
Onward marching, heedless of hindrances on the way
Towards the portals of morning, their will welded strong
Their eyes glowing with formidable faith the Sun in all its
Radiance would burst forth to herald a glorious tomorrow. . !