A grieving country appears from my window,
my own, forlorn and destitute. It is the clouds,
hazy and uncertain before the blustery winds
that make the treetops dance to the tune
of alleluia. It is our way, as it has always been,
of swaying to what alien force of bad histories
we have got, on our tables as in our memory.
We have lived far long into the faraway distances
of our dreams coming in between peaceful revolutions
and mourning for our dead, kins and brothers,
as well as our old gods who no longer respond
to our supplications even if we kneel in prayer
from morning to forgetfulness. We have come
a long way from where we first began to declare
what love for a homeland is from epitaphs
of secret words we uttered to last a lifetime
and more even if the fallowed fields we grow
our hopes do not yield the goods we seek.
A country, sad and sadder, appears from my window.
It is afternoon over here and the hours are sad
like the clouds running through the dark skies
in this Manoa of a day I remember to sing.