Blood Money For Our Offering

This is our blood money, you say,

The precious currency of this country

Of migrants and misery, of the high

And the low, of those who domicile

In palaces built of people's power

And pallid poems, sweat and labor,

Dream and desire even until now

That our first freedoms

Have already come on cue.

It is the blood money

Of those who reside in the rims

Of cities, past the grid of profits,

Those who dream of lunch buffets

On filthy pavements downtown,

In the suburbs, on subway entrances.

Oh yes, you say, the color

Of this blood money

Is the color of the cost

We all need to survive each day,

Just to breathe each day.

Aurelio S. Agcaoili


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