How old I was I can’t remember well.
But too old for a vivid remembrance, of pain
for me, and death for you.

Whiteness of fur spoke of purity,
blood painted whiteness, Red--
rusted beatings you bore,

Whimpering, wriggling your body
tied on that rope, hanging on that “santol” tree,
bearing witness, wounding your skin,

In agony, you were wrestling
with metals, they folded, they bowed,
clasped to your neck, the rust.

Hide! said my Mama.
Don’t look, she added.
Hide I did and look I did.

In-between those bamboo slats, I saw:
the whiteness of your body;
blood painted the whiteness, red, like the rust.

Sweating.
On that bamboo stick I held, I gripped my hands
also brown, like the lining on your neck.

Tears unshed, sealing my lips.
Like boiling water, trapped on that ***, that these brutes had prepared
scalding your skin,

Dogs fed on dog, these brutes were
singing in worship of “Tanduay”, a bottle,  their god.
Drumbeats wanting, but laugh,  and laugh they did.

Like a good master they called you, Azucena, an innocent girl.
Voice lilting, luring you to your death,
Azucena... not the provincial bus, that will transport you to your grave,

Azucena... not the white “liliums” that abound the heaven, or your grave.
But a name, a noun, to feed their protruding stomachs, stinking,
to wash their rotten soul, perhaps.

Azucena,
Asocena,
But that’s not your name.