| masalub-on |

to bellow
is far better fate
    than silence.

what the world never hears
will be forever buried.
the muteness encompassing
all our states has its way
of burying things and emblazon
them with nothing but monuments.

nobody hears a creature
  when it is wounded
  in the dark bramble.

nobody sees the crossing
  of birds at dawn,
  and if you do,
  you'll never know the
  memory of their flight.

nobody knows the existence
  of rust in the gears of
  a train slumbering somewhere
  in Buendia. the resilience
  of its song, the allegory
  of immutable abeyance.

all matter consigned to odes.
punctuated by time's manuscript,
and all derivatives of sadness
   mean only this:
      
        it is time to go.