On the ceiling, my eyes lust
For a symbolic text.
But it is white with dumbness,
I only think of the essence
Of breathing, the incoherence
Of rains, the pains my country
Proclaims. The music I hear
Down some street corner:
No, I will not rise for the window,
Let the sickle moon be,
White, let it tremble
Before my eyes. The city’s bums
Are turned into armchair
Veterans of life with their blues,
Their rock music breaking
Their voices into icy loneliness.
This afternoon before the fury
Of rain another human
Has gone over the edge.
I walk on a street filled
With leaves, ghoulish and adrift,
Each one bloating or conjuring sleep.

Cebu, Philippines

Published in Philippine Graphic Magazine (2 September 1990)


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