Sa gitna ng mga pangungusap at patinig,
sumisirit pa rin ang kislap, sumisitsit pa rin ang iyong tinig.
Sa harap ng mga katinig at mga salitang hiram,
mawala man ang tuldik, at impit, ika'y tutulo pa rin, tila ulan.
At sa likod nitong mga tula at awit ay ang tunay na ibig sabihin,
sana'y maunawaan mo pa rin ang sambit ng aking labi.
At sa ibabaw nitong mga salita, may hindi pa rin maisawika,
nawa'y maintindihan mo pa rin na ikaw ang sinisinta.
Ibabalik ko lahat sa'yo itong mga hiram na salita,
salin mula sa iyong lengguwahe, isasauli ng aking banyagang dila.
Pahintulutan **** ialay sa iyong may dagdag-bawas,
tila makabagong relihiyon, ngunit pangakong hindi ako mag-aaklas.

Now here enters a woman who reads;
and voraciously, too.
In the coffee shop, in a wine bar,
in the meat shop, in a funeral.
Now here enters a woman who’s a poet;
she writes as one would deal drugs.
In the dark, in the down low,
in well-versed hush, in rehearsed rush.
Now here enters an angry woman;
“how feisty, I bet she’s a *****.”
Points fingers at men twice her size,
she punches mouths until they bleed out lies.
Now here enters a healthy woman;
healed as her anger is not suppressed,
she exercises, eats less than the rest,
hushes her mouth as the poison’s out.

I think, you have to be a **** *******.
**** the rules, of course. Forget the very word.
And run.
And ride.
And hide.
You have to avoid everyone and everything.
Avoid every unfamiliar feeling.
Avoid unfamiliar anything.
And run some more.
You have to curse better than a sailor can.
You have to stop thinking and dreaming about the sea.
You do not belong there, you are not feeling the ocean breeze.
And ride. Keep on riding.
Debunk every myth about you, with a worse news.
Dismiss every drunken enemy, with a bullet or a dime.
Defy the unknown and the unexplored by riding until you fly.
And ride some more.
And when it gets too good, be worse than ever.
And be the worst when you find the best.
And ride and hide and ride.
That's how to be the best cowboy there ever is.
And I am well on my way to be that.
I am well on my way to be just that!

¿Nadie te lo dijo? Eres bien famoso por aquí.
He derramado tu nombre en las calles y playas,
como vomitar después de una buena fiesta.
He manchado mi ropa y mi cuerpo con mentiras,
y le he contado a desconocidos una historia de amor ficticia.

¿Pero no te lo contaron?
He susurrado a las conchas sobre el sonido de tu voz,
para recordarlo cada vez que me ahogue en el mar.
He cantado en las iglesias sobre el color de tus ojos,
para que te recordaran y te besaran en mi lugar.

¿Pero tú lo recordarías?
Que reescribiría todos los poemas, escrituras y libros,
como limpiar hojas en primavera después del otoño.
Que le escribiría incluso al sol, reiniciaría el verano,
para que su calor te encontrara en cualquier parte del mundo.

¿Pero te das cuenta? Eres una leyenda por aquí.
He elevado tu nombre entre las estrellas y los dioses,
cómo he soñado y escrito sobre ti cada noche.
Has superado a todos los emperadores y reyes,
cómo un mito, cómo construí nuevas islitas con tu nombre.

¿Y finalmente lo entiendes?
Eres el tema de mis poemas, mis verdades, mi leyenda,
aunque no estés aquí ni a mi lado.
Que eres el recipiente de mis prosas, mis penas y playas,
que nunca será borrado por ningún tratado.

When she could bring the sun and fun
after surviving rains and pain,
that’s so tropical!
When she dances with the storms,
sings with the winds and their howls,
that’s so pacific!
When she steps out smelling like the ocean,
smiling, looking like the sunset,
she’s so tropical!
When she writes poetry out of tragedies,
takes lyrics and proses from calamities,
that’s so pacific!
When she smells like coconuts and mangoes
after cutting off people and letting them go,
oh, how tropical!
When she sways along with the palm trees,
instead of sulking down on her knees,
that’s so pacific!
The sun and storms,
the rains and fun,
the dances and the winds,
ah, how tropical!
The oceans, the calamities,
the tragedies, the poetry,
the coconuts, the people,
the mangoes, the palm tress,
so, so, tropical!

But what would you need from me?
Somebody who have heard every sound there is to hear,
What made you make the far journey over here?
You, who have walked cities I could only imagine now,
touched every sand, swam in every sea, basked in snow.
You, who have seen faces that I only see in paintings of oil,
laid your eyes on all shades of gold, coal, savored every soil.

But what could you want from me?
Somebody who seems to have everything,
what made you think I have something to offer a king?
You, who have riches that my people can't even dare to dream,
all the grains and flavors, of spices and silver, how they all gleam!
You, who have the finest of things, how life blessed you abundant,
all the valleys, jewels, oceans, rings, what more could you want?

But what else could I give you but ancient wisdom?
I am but an unnamed island, air kisses of breeze and palm trees.
I could not give you anything else but brand new calm and peace.
Poor little me, who only have plentitude of the sweetest of fruits,
the second best I could give you is my loyalty and truth.
Poor little me, I would only hurt and drown you with my tears,
they call me 'best' even from the west, but I only have seas of fears.

And what could an island be worth to a kingdom?
I am an uncouth, unknown maiden in front of imperial princesses.
I could not be your place of politics, you can't even build palaces.
Little old me, who only have endemic flowers of newer colors,
it is best to go your merry way, forget about my warm summers.
Little old me, I would only scare you with my quakes and storms,
don't write to me from home, simply leave me desolate and forlorn.

Ah yes, I stopped asking and annoying the sun;
"what are his summer plans?"
Rains just started rolling, city thunders are singing;
"what about his homecoming?"
I can't even ask about his day
without subtly saying;
"are you almost on your way?!?"
so much for silent praying.
Ah but I don't care now what he does or where he goes,
the clouds are grey and cold, so is my little nose.
Storms are humming, pacific sun is in hiding, but teasing;
"okay, but I am not the one hiding something..."

The northwestern wind writes, "what's taking you so long?"
My microwave hums, "at least you've got a business"
The pacific waves of Baler calls me, "come back"
My new parcel's sticker says "do not fold"

The sun dances in hiding
My days dwindling

The monsoon breeze makes noise, "it's never gonna happen"
My fridge buzzes anew, "whatever the **** that was"
The distant dream of Siargao, "I'm in timeout"
My pile of books jokes, "that was a dream."

The clouds sings in poems
My time is thinning

The rolling eastern storms teases, "can't you see it's killing me?"
My turntable curses itself nightly, "get a new job or else"
The sweet kisses of Urbiztondo, "well I'd rather not"
My shell earrings whispers, "but what if?"

The moon stays writing
My nights fading

I've no need for sleep, until all the stars above our seas are free.
I've no desire to wake and rise, until the sun sets in our fields of rice.
I've no time to shed tears, until every drop of my ocean is allowed again to be salty.
I've nothing to lose, until I lose my motherland to the hands of another enemy.
I feel no hunger, until every farmer's family have something to eat.
I feel no thirst, until every fisherman's friends can sail and live.
I've no mind for pain and logic, until every politician's ideals are not from their ****.
I've no heart for heartbreak, until each of my countrymen's heartache has been healed.

Est-ce ce que font les vrais hommes?
Ils répondent et font preuve de clarté.
Est-ce ce que font les vrais amoreux?
Ils expriment et montrent leur vulnérabilité.
Je fredonne:
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que doit faire une vraie femme?
Que doit faire un vrai amoreux?
Mais quel choix ai-je?
Quel autre choix ai-je?
Est-ce que c'est ce que font les vrais hommes?
Il revient, clairement.
Est-ce ce que fait un vrai amant?
Il exprime son amour, avec vulnérabilité.
Maintenant, je sais quoi chanter;
Je prie pour savoir ce que je fais.

Maybe you will see through history.
You will find that this is how things used to be.
Maybe it's really supposed to be me, honestly.
Things only got in order, cleaned up the corners.
Maybe this is for the best, and it shall be, no wonder.
The streets that you thought you knew is not all that is.
Maybe it's not me and you, but could I still give you a kiss?
The city doesn't intend to take more, but to give, please believe.
Our city sheds tears daily for weeks.

Maybe you will get enough of reality.
You will see that there is paradise in the urbanity.
Maybe we were meant to be apart so we could listen to our hearts.
Things would only get messier, but I will be crazier.
Maybe I got the right tools to help you feel better.
The city is not after you, it won't drown or drain you out.
Maybe my letters are futile, you are who the scripture is about.
The city is for ours to reign in, or you could come when it's raining.
Our city bleeds weekly for months.

Maybe you will read through my poetry.
You will get in between my metaphors and subtleties.
Maybe you're supposed to show me how to write.
Things would be better if certain things didn't happen.
Maybe it's all part of a bigger plan, who's holding the pen?
The city that my children will be running in is one we can't hate.
Maybe there's reason and logic for everything, even when it's late.
The city will be the witness, in my arms is where it's warmest.
Our city will no longer cry and bleed for years.

If there is beauty in death,
there are hundred deaths in beauty.
If there is winning in suffering,
there are thousands of suffering to win.
Where is the red carpet to the exit door?
Is the way out the end all and be all?
Where is the limousine to forevermore?
Is winning truly at our beck and call?
Teach me how to say a graceful goodbye.
How do I make you read one more line?
Tell me a way to a more flawless farewell.
How do I make you come out of hell?
There is death in beauty,
suffering in winning,
winning over death,
death of suffering.

My heart is a walled city,
an inner city with fortresses so high.
On all corners, cannons await enemies.
I protect my heart fiercely for I know
how fierce my heart and love can be.
My heart is an inner city,
protected by centuries behind me.
On all eight gates, soldiers are guarding closely.
I have walls so mighty and high for I have
been dragged bloodily through these streets.
My heart is within a walled, inner city,
yet somehow you have authority,
you have some special key.
I am a newer, poorer, younger city,
some jewel or pearl of the east,
tell me, are you my king?

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I thank
that in a world so vast,
at how wide time stretch,
you and I still met?

I do believe in God,
who else could orchestrate
such a boundless union as ours?

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I pray to
for your safety and peace,
knowing that's not something
I could offer you and give?

I do believe in God,
who else could write and design
such a flawless experiment as you and I?

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I give credits to
for moving seas and history
and my stubborn mind,
thinking the impossible like you'd be mine?

I do believe in God,
who else could make someone like you for me,
and our islands that we will swim and live in?

And God forbid I get asked again,
"And what do you bring to the table?"
This time, my answer would be; "nothing!"
I have no worth without doing anyone favors,
I have no price without a pretty face,
I have no tags without brains,
I have no name without money,
I have no face without ***,
I have no place without favors.
I have no fame without sacrifices.
So leave me alone!
I don't even wish to sit at your table.
I don't even let myself dream about it.
Don't ask me no questions!
I don't even want to be in your vicinity.
I don't even want you back in my city.