By Marc Jeff Lañada
Poetry
What do I make of all the blue waves that inhabit my memory,
Waves ridging, crashing, then cut briefly by my dorsal eyes?
Without human touch, a perpetual instrument was made,
Wanders across latitudes and beyond the territories of sight:
World, as it first was, again, rediscovered. Forget the sparrow
Whistling at dawn, the choir of honking cars, the morning radio;
Where sand meets the infinite foam lives a melody, weaved of
Words my tongue cannot choreograph. The performance begins,
Whether dawn or dusk is pooling in the ocean, and stays there.
What do I make of all the blue waves that inhabit my memory,
Waves ridging, crashing, then cut briefly by my dorsal eyes?