He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He put the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
Into the coffee with milk
With a small spoon
He churned
He drank the coffee
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He emptied the coffee with milk
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He lighted
One cigarette
He made circles
With the smoke
He shook off the ash
Into the ashtray
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
He got up
He put on
A hat on his head
He put on
A raincoat
Because it was raining
And he left
Into the rain
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
And I buried
My face in my hands
And I cried

My head and my heart
know only one song.

This song has no title
no artist
no album
no genre
unless you consider every person who had ever whispered this song
from cracked lips and dried up throats
or had hummed its tune in monotonous habit until it became nothing
but a humdrum sing-a-long, pass-it-on
religious routine with each letter sounding
outlandishly familiar to something forever etched in their memory.

My mother taught me this song
when I was two years old
because a decade minus eight is the age where you start remembering things like
the shape of your mouth when you’re forming the letter O
how it’s supposed to feel when it’s been struck and
how you’re supposed to not fight back
how you’re supposed to accept that you’re the weak one
how you’re just supposed to always and forever just sing
this one song.

“This
is the song your father
and his father
and his father’s father
and all their grandfathers’ great grandfathers
sang.
This
is the song that began
our end,”
is what my mother told me before she taught me
and before her lips could form the first vowel
before her throat could carry the first syllable
I knew.

I knew that this song
was a fallen hymn
drenched in desperation
its words only there to fill in the deafening silence
and like cheap cement
only meant to repair
but not to mend.
A tune that would put you to sleep
in order for you not to notice
the truth swept up under the rug
A ballad of blood
and ash
enough to fill up your lungs
and flow through your veins until its lies crawled up,
tainted and tattooed your skin
to produce scars for the world to see
scars for the world to label me
and say,
“Ah. She is her mother’s daughter.”

And when my mother finally sang the song,
I could feel the deceit and betrayal electrifying the air
adding to the illusion this twisted symphony
created that this
is the only song we can sing
this
is the only song
we were meant to bring
with us from cradle to grave.
I could hear hatred
notes of ignorance
chords of discord
something was wrong with the harmony
and I cried,
“Change the song!”
My mother sang on.
“Change the song!”
My father started to blend.
“Change the song!”
My grandmother came as a third voice.
“Change the song!”
My grandfather started to tap his feet to the beat.

And I realized that more than three hundred and thirty three years ago
someone had hummed a fa
had pressed a piano key
had written one verse
had been forced to scream out the bridge with chains on their wrists
crevices on their faces left by the tears that ran down the same path
enough times to make riverbeds
had passed the song down to his daughter
and her daughter
and her daughter’s great granddaughters
and had never stopped writing the lyrics since

There was an awkward rest in the song
as if someone had dared to stop continuing
had put the pen down
had tried to write truth instead of lies
but had died with the song of insurgency
and I asked my father whose blood it was
and he answered,
“Someone who asked questions.”
So I asked him who I was
and he answered,
“Nobody.”

But here I stand
here you stand
knowing the truth that has resurfaced
after being smothered by greed and power
century after century
curse after curse
thorn after thorn
I grew up asking questions
and I’m asking them again.
Are you going to be the first one
to erase the words?
Are you going to be the first one
to drown them out with freedom shouts?
Are you going to be the first one
to lay the pen down?
Because if you won’t, then I will
so that one day, my daughters will know
and carry this in their hearts,
Ang  mamatay  nang  dahil  sa  *iyo

Together as One.
To gather as One.
Two gather as One.

There are many agent Smiths
There is only one Neo

There are many lies
There is only one truth

There are many battles
There is only one war

There are many scars
There is only one laurel wreath

There are many tear drops
There is only one smile

There are many failures
There is only one triumph

There are many desires
There is only one soul

There are many stars
There is only one Sun

There are many dark nights
There is only one sunrise

So when you're all alone facing inevitability
Know that you are The One.

if you can't laugh at disaster you won't be able to celebrate catastrophe