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.

I could still recall how gently I held your seed
and brought you to your bed.
There a drop of sweat from this forehead
joyously mingled with some grains of your soil.
I lay you there and saw the approval of the sun
as he sent his warmth reflected on your cheerful coating.
You lay down restfully on your life bed
And I dreamed…

You rose with your sturdy trunk
so robust with pride that your neighboring flagpole
felt intimated by your presence.
They sang him hymns
they bowed at him with their hearts
while you humbly stood there
swaying your greens, reaching atop, conquering the scorches of your sun
so that they, underneath remain unharmed, unscorched, unsoaked.

Soon you bore velvety fruits that the young munched as well as the old
On lazy days you gave them games of soccers and boomerangs,
and tennis, and catches and fetches.

On moonlights, you appeared to be a violinist
as the lovers kissed under your warm company.

You were the silent listener to the broken hearts
when you offered your comforting barks as a shoulder
till they cried and wept
till they breathed and smiled once again.

You had a way with humans who slouch under your shade
You hummed serenades that only your chirping friends
and fluttering colorflies hear and together
you created an orchestra harmonizing songs of friendship, of peace, of love.

I saw you arise and write down histories on to your memory—
how you tried to reach for the graduates’ caps in the air,
how spirited you applauded for great speeches  on that podium
but no one ever noticed.

I saw you sway your branches gracefully as the marching band went
boom-boom, tug-tug, and kling-klang.
It was your favorite part of the day.

So many times you bore witness to silly fights
of the young and the old too,
but most often you saw these creatures
make peace at dusk.

There I saw you in eternity.
There I saw you to be forever standing tall on your life bed.

Then I heard the hellish rumble of their chainsaw,
the shrill reverberation piercing through this feeble core
as they ruthlessly cut your body.

I could not afford to watch you being slain.

You are my life.

Your death is my death.

rinsing my flask, this late afternoon
and scouring to steal anything from my father's humble tavern: Chilean.

bought on stolen wine, this daze,
pacing itself carefully, as masterful as
a leering puma poised to strike

with a dull blade duller than stab-wound,
nobody heard this primal man cry in the
woods and i'm no dangerous man.

just a shadow that fits the sizable hands
of the world cupped, the afternoon is slain and the hue is its blood:

something the brush of the wind
sensuously brings a roulette of red
  blue, lavender, viridian,
plucked out of the vermilion
wading out as a debris forgotten waltzes
with the river underneath the kamagong— an answerless enigma amid all
    perplexities,

are we but nothing whilst we live?

toppling the gait
  of trees in the bluster.

we do not like it when it rains.

under the melee, kamagong lay
idly with the gravity of fruit ripened.
  at long last, touching ground.

in this knell

i regard you as plaything
take drippy measures and harness
  cues for thrusts.

the span of the shadow plastered
to the wall means   the silence is as deep
   as the rain outside,

all up from the unfurling corner
  of walled up tango-stride, ripping apart
the    linoleum with   dance.

  i may become a daub of perfume

   and you, maybe a smile on my face
   passing as it rained.