This is for you, son, a poet
Of a people lost a long time ago.
Evenings here come early in autumn
And I read your email announcing
Your coming into the door of dark dawns.
We are a people with no memory, I know.
We are a people with no story, you know.
Together, we string the litanies
Of failed tunes because hunger
Raped our throat with a singsong
We borrow from the eclipse of moons.
I see the sad lines of your poem
As I watch these Torrance skies slashed
By winds fierce and furious, the same
Winds that visit the villages of our
Risky rebellions, late as they are.
I cannot tell it is the falling
Of faint leaves dried up by
The sudden seasons
Surging in our soul.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili