Call it madness,
This search
For lives
That splurges
On technicolor dreams
In a black and white
World of exiles
Like us.
We have come
From the heart
Of mountains
And wombs
Of islands.
We have arrived
From the edges
Of sin and salvation
Multiplied a hundredfold
With the promises
Of virgin politicians,
They who become vendors
Of national despair
Eventually,
One we see
From morgues
In the night.
Oh, our soul
Will look for us
In the last lights
Even as we define
Place and space here,
Here, in this dreamland
Of green cards,
Of green money too
That redeems us
From the sorrowful sums
From small gods,
They who corrupt us
To appease our hunger
To relieve our pain,
They who people
Our nightmares
In many dark nights
Brutalized
By a word oozing with stale
Blood.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Dec. 14, 2004
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