Pagmasdan mo ako.

Damhin mo ang magaspang kong palad na bagamat ay nangulubot ay syang humahalik sa putikang sakahang pinaghihirapan.

Titigan mo ang mga mata kong hapung-hapo sa pagtanggap sa bagsak-presyong palay na katumbas ng presyo ng isang tsitsirya.

Ngunit, pakikinggan mo ba sila sa sasabihin nilang wag kaming papamarisan?

Sa bawat hakbang ko papalayo sa lupang sakahan

ay sya namang hakbang ko papalapit sa mataas na antas ng pakikibaka.

Kakalabanin ang pasistang gobyernong pilit yumuyurak sa katulad naming mga dukha.

–

Isa ako sa may pinakamaliliit na tinig sa lipunan.

Isa ako sa hindi maintindihan ng nakararami na isa sa mga nagtatanim ngunit ngayon ay walang makain.

Patawarin mo ako sa paglisan ko’t pagsama sa mga pagpupulong at sa pakikidigma para sa natatanging kilusan.

Dahil ako ang bumabagtas sa estrangherong lugar na kung tawagin ay Maynila.

Ako ngayon ang mukha ng mga magbubukid, ng mga inapi at ng mga pinagkaitan ng karapatan sa ilalim ng berdugong administrasyon ng bayan kong hindi na nakalaya.

Ako ang estrangherong kumilala sa bawat sulok at lagusan ng Mendiola na piping-saksi sa mga panaghoy naming kailanma’y hindi pakikinggan ng nakatataas.

Ako at ng aking mga kasama, ang bagong dugong isasalin sa sistemang ninanais naming patakbuhin.

Patawarin mo ako sa pagpili kong matangay sa agos ng mabilisang kamatayan tungo sa pulang kulay ng rebolusyon.

Ngunit, kailanman ay hindi nyo maiintindihan,

na hindi naging mali na ipaglaban ko ang aking bayan.

these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
   as they    pick up a mound of the Earth and  throw at genuflected  roses.
these battered men   in parks   searching  for light
   and   my woman   is no longer with  me.

it’s all  vaudeville:  this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant  flutings,   these  unprecedented fluctuations.

opening  the yellow gates  to death
as the  automobile churns the  last of its exhausted snarl.
   we    are children   peering through   glass cases
as   death laughs at his   hopeless  clientele,
    sad,   desolate   progenies   in   working-classes,
in   parks,  in factories,   somewhere along Mendiola,
  or  just treading the waist-high  hellish   froths   of   Dapitan,
    there’s   always   death in   the nooks   of the quiet
and from   where birds    stir in  sidereal circles,   death
  with his hands    resting   on the   cage,   chases us  back to  our homes.

death   the changing of the   gatekeeper.
death  the   telling machine.
death   the dentist.
death   my next door neighbor.
death,   this boorish broken-winged   Maya twitching in  front
   of my dog’s shadow  shot out of the Sun’s  shameful recoil.
death,   my loud and loutish muse,
death    the   truant,
death,   the   copious  fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
   death,   in my   hands through   darkness    and  light,
death   through troves   of enigma,
      death   through   undisputed clearings,
death    the   long line  of red beads   in EDSA,
  death  the gates   of Plaridel,

     it’s the moon   following you,   trailing your measure,
i hold   my woman’s used   shirt,  pick up her photographs
    and there’s no tender movement left but  the still-seeking   lion
prowling   the jungles   of my  heart,   seared by  lovelorn undoing.
  
through   the  bottom of  the sky and the  unchanging roof-beam,
  the weathervane ceases to  a sojourn  and the  wind is  trapped
    in   a place  where we   cannot   utter any word  between the  gnashing
  of   our teeth – through the wasted   years,  through  the sleeping in  and out
  of   homes filled  with beatings,  to cathedrals swollen with  tribulations,
      and to   the vineyards     wrung   out   of wine,    my  lover,   walking  through  fire,
        sound     silence.

The month of May may not be a part
Of our struggle. It belongs to those
Who have chosen to remember the
Blots of blood showered along the

Mendiola pavement, paving a closely-
Knit kinship of beliefs and bewildered
Minds, of a passing moment, of a
Movement passed on generations.

Struggles don't end, for they never begin.
Gun's barrel is where power grows. Mao
Theorized it, generations lived it. Not until
This generation's search for new reason,

Tilling fields

Are mapped in the hearts of the masses;
Where new weapons are fashioned, new
Passion grows for living the theory, for
Doing philosophy out of soil, out of gears.

Superstructure is rebuilt on chalkboards.

Mendiola Street feels different these days.
I still walk it, tracing the same path I always have; Mondays and Thursdays at midnight, when the city breathes in silence. On other days, I walk as the morning sun rises, its warmth pressing against my skin.

Some days, I stop by the nearby cafés, sit by the window, watch people come and go. Their lives briefly intersects with mine before vanishing into their own stories. I sip my coffee and, for a moment, relive that late afternoon from two years ago. The way the dimming light stretched long over the pavement. The way peace and excitement coexisted in my chest. The way happiness made me feel like I wasn’t even touching the ground. The innocence, the unfolding story, the hope, the magic. I keep trying to step back into that moment, but time doesn’t work that way.

My eyes always wander to the people, the sky, and the trees. Their branches used to cast shadows on the ground, dancing patterns of light and dark. But now, the leaves are gone, leaving the street bare, emptier than before. And yet, the trunks remain, standing tall, holding onto memories even as everything else changes.

Most days, those trees see me worn out, hopeless, and frustrated as I head home in the afternoons. They have seen how I outgrew my naivety, how I lost and regained kindness, how I fought to survive each day, how I was pushed to grow thicker skin. But they’ve also witnessed my happiest moments, the ones where I felt like light itself, beaming and shining down the street. And maybe, just maybe, they remember.

Amid all the ordinary things I pass each day, I still hope for something unexpected; to be found without searching, to stumble upon something that makes me feel weightless again. But I've been contemplating leaving for a long time now, and only time will tell if I'll still be walking the same pavement next year.

Dear good sir,

I have the honor to address
And cite my grievance and stress
I am very slow to anger
Yet I demand your answer
Careful how you proceed
At times I am Intemperate indeed  
Slandering my name with disrespect
Apologize I shall accept with no reject
Or prepare for both of us will bleed
I have not been so cowardly or shy
On how I act in the public eye
In the field, face-to-face by dawn
Choose good sir fist, swords or guns drawn

your humble colleague,
M. Mendiola