And here you are
Child, come to me.
This. What it used to be.
The entrance to your
Marble home.
The pillars.
the four corners that held
your baby clothes, old toys.
Like a wicker basket
In flames, now blackened
And covered
With the thick vines
And mired in green.
Nothing withstanded
The once and Great war.
The nights lit up
like fire-flowers blooming
in summer. Every thing
Burned away. Nothing
sacred was left. Doors and
Walls no longer stand.
You touch what is left
Grazing your fingers
On the roughness of
This old, old skin. Tired.
Now.
Only the stairway
Is left.
The only portion left
Clothed with marble
Not carved away
by scavengers.
It looks sad
now that it leads
nowhere.
It led only to sadness
If you try to remember
What is no longer there.
With finality
You pick up your things
And go.
Content with the past
That it once held you
In its brown,
But now white and bony arms.
For Nick Joaquin
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / Augsut 12, 2014 – Bulacan)
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
And here you are
Child, come to me.
This. What it used to be.
The entrance to your
Marble home.
The pillars.
the four corners that held
your baby clothes, old toys.
Like a wicker basket
In flames, now blackened
And covered
With the thick vines
And mired in green.
Nothing withstanded
The once and Great war.
The nights lit up
like fire-flowers blooming
in summer. Every thing
Burned away. Nothing
sacred was left. Doors and
Walls no longer stand.
You touch what is left
Grazing your fingers
On the roughness of
This old, old skin. Tired.
Now.
Only the stairway
Is left.
The only portion left
Clothed with marble
Not carved away
by scavengers.
It looks sad
now that it leads
nowhere.
It led only to sadness
If you try to remember
What is no longer there.
With finality
You pick up your things
And go.
Content with the past
That it once held you
In its brown,
But now white and bony arms.
For Nick Joaquin
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / Augsut 12, 2014 – Bulacan)
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