A Morong 43 raises her clenched fist.
It is her picture on the Inquirer
that speaks in the silence
we know but cannot speak.
It is this land in the centuries
past and present. The betrayals
are everywhere. The hope we need
missing where it should be.
We need to serve our people
in their quest for what is,
the life, good and promised,
absent in our homes out
of thin cans or the refuse of others.
There is roof on our heads, true,
but all this is in the mind,
the shape of this fantasy
in this our clenched fist
we have learned to do to fight.
It is fighting that is left
and nothing more, and in between
one hope and another, we prepare
ourselves to gather all the strength
we need for each day that we have
to deal with the vicissitudes of grief.
Filipinas/Feb 16, 2010