Our ashes have settled on the cliff of pride while the seed of today sprouts your frailty beginning. We have at last seen the face of our god which you have not even learned to utter or never will at all. Your intelligence gave you power that failed the comprehension of our yesterfathers. You built humans in just a sprinkle of ***** on to the skin of alligators and ants on to the stem of a bee and the sting of a plant. And you called them your sons And you called them your kind. The burrowed earths have no more riches and they are left unpalatable to worms, no more worms even for even these decomposers learn to tire feeding on your greed no more shades of blue in the putrid waters to which this bottle was thrown, to which this letter longed to swim with your same species that can never be in our family tree for it has grown dead atop the impotent soil. How we wished that your sons wished they were with us in the time when sparrows roared in the Kamagong tree when wild boars chirped in the dancing bamboos when the snow-like smokes breathed in the cone of Mayon when the bangus and tilapia worshipped the nets of the singing fishermen. How we wished they wished they knew. How we wished they wished they saw.