all i see now are the silent ruin of words teeming with wisdom in every trail. you are gleaming in the moony boondocks, IbabΓ‘ remembers you as you were - timeless and ruminative, pursuing the source of rivers.
our sublime versifier, the crucifixes now tremble without the fullness of your flesh. each page is turned without the hover of your voice yet stills its resonant message in my mind's premises like redolent graffiti. striding river-pace, once in moonlit Orfeo graced by your sibilant being, leaving only the strongest of impression on the surly couch, a toppled glass of Shiraz remembering your attendance leaving the clamor of the audiences real to touch, elusive in thought.
before the war was the ever-present word, and after the fray was the armistice of the Sun where in humdrum Sampiro, your fire's genealogy is in the hands of the muse!
idly go the hours, wading everlong past Calle HerrΓ‘n - the bells of Paco Church tell in this imperfect hour the roads where you once traversed, travailed and perhaps beer-maddened, putting a face in the metaphysical!
in your banquet i partake the wisdom of your wine and the reason of your flesh - the gods delight in you, o, Manila of all Manila.
For Nick Joaquin, one of the greatest literary fellows in his own time.