By Joebert Palma Jr.
Ravaging like omnipotent waves, here, the stark Darkness
creeps, stalks, and feeds on the fragile cliff that we are.
A synchronous dance, a way to Death, a treacherous kiss,
we gladly take it in, but tomorrow’s not far.
We bathe in a crimson lake that doesn’t stain our togas,
for this lake is ethereal, our dry skin divine.
Send all the unknown faces in windowless bodegas.
Call the Animals. Witness the might of the Kind.
Allow the Shadow to cover this land, to flood this plane
of people with no faces who hid in their cage.
Sing their songs, remember their names, but bury their children, and
the offspring of their children—fruit of the sage.
Let the benevolence of the murk hide their battle scars,
to silence their mouths before they unleash their cry.
Slit the throat of Kumander Liwayway, to end her wars,
so as to impale her womb so she wouldn’t try.
Here, in the stillness of the air, out in the cold open,
we plow this barren earth where they used to run free,
to plant these Seeds that will eventually feed our children,
whose youth invigorates their need for mutiny.
Yet here, in the stillness of the cold air in the open,
their shut eyes awaken from a now distant dream.
Liwayway bore her own children, taught them how she lived then,
how she fought Life for life. Life trembled when she came.
But the earth is still soaked with the blood of the lost faces,
fueling all the grieving with a peaceful rage.
They marched and marched until no one cared to track the traces for
it is in resonance can they only break their Cage.
The stark Darkness is still vast and owning, still ravaging.
Its ebony talons are masking the blind trail.
Liwayway’s children marched and marched and then came the Morning.
Darkness screeched and curled. Its spite won’t leave this vale.