We were among those hundred innocent feet
wheeling through the clouds of dusts. So close
that someone shouted to stop the angry phalanx
from advancing the gates. We were young bloods then.
Brave as a collective force ululating vignettes
about homeless families, starving peasants,
weak indigents, landless tribes,
friends of disappeared and the exiled.
We stand like a hundred innocent moths
circling fearlessly around the flame. Ready
to extinguish our fates for one day of glory.
The cups ready to be filled with the bitter
after-taste of seeking the truth on the matter
of state. Of politics. Of international affairs.
We stomp them shamelessly beneath our sandals.
We ripped them off from our tattered jeans.
We print them on the plainness of black shirts.
That justice of the land is not blind and should prevail.
We debated doctrines. We fight about logic.
We push our pens. We clasp our fists.
We join the caravan. We live our days
marching vigorous in the streets chanting
the aged texts on mass struggles by the red book.
Burning effigies. Donning the placards.
We abhor dictatorship. We hated imperialism.
Like waterbombs spouting heavily against our faces.
Like the many teargases hurled against our defences.
We bled when the police beat us out of the line.
Isolated when we are thrown into prison cells.
Humiliated when subjected into torture chambers.
Discriminated when hunted down in the mountains.
We rise and made each part of our bodies as weapons.
Our mouths without strained voices.
Our eyes without biases.
Our ears without prejudice.
Our fists without cowardice.
Our hearts without fear.
This is our revolution against the world order.
And the phoenix will rise again and again
among the many moths that have died.
Resurrected and will never be silenced.
Solitude Amidst the Maddening Crowd
Shadow Son
Posted in Current Affairs, Literature, Memoirs, Poetry, Relationships, Religion, Social Commentary, Society, tagged alone, amble, amount, animal, anymore, become, begin, bitter, bone, bridge, chain, child, clothing, definition, disowned, distance, doors, down, dreams, exist, face, faceless, fatherless, fend, first, flesh, flight, free, gunpowder, hand, handprints, heartless, hide, himself, image, journey, knock, learn, left, life, lived, lock, mirror, molting, naked, nameless, newborn, old, own, paperbills, past, place, poem, poetry, redemption, reflection, refuse, representation, restrained, shadow, shattered, shimmer, silence, smell, someone, son, strangers, strip, sun, taste, touch, true, tyke, victim, water, way, welcome, wine, wings, words, world, years on July 31, 2013| Leave a Comment »
No amount of words can bridge
the distance of years in silence-
because the sun hides its face
like the way a tyke, fatherless
and left out into the world
to fend for himself. Alone.
Someone has to refuse
to become the victim anymore.
You knock some doors
and it is locked. You are not
welcome there. And a hand
is restrained to touch his own
shadow or an image reflected
a life mirrored in water.
Disowned molting who just
learned its first flight
and give ambled wings
to shattered dreams.
Of the smell of gunpowder.
The handprints on paperbills
and the bitter taste of wine.
None of which represents
your true bone stripped of flesh.
An animal with no redemption-
heartless and chained.
You will refuse to let the past
define you of who you will become.
And you begin the journey
to a place of faceless and nameless
strangers. You will exist
as though you just have lived
and strip down the shadow
as an old clothing. Naked and free
shimmering like a newborn child.
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