It is this red moon at midnight.
The dream is dying to live on and on.
It is red, as is revolution in heat
Like this animal we have reared
Brought to life from our bodies
The lines of our poems too
Even the courage of our youth.
It is past summertime here
With our feelings for a land
We used to be part of as wind
And air and light. Storms too.
And then the story of eclipses
When politics becomes our bread
And we are here to hunger for more
To thirst for more even as we
Calm our nerves at this midnight
Of the red moon that will come back
To us, its obituary of our grief
The recession of our loves.
June 24, 2011/
Marikina
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