Friday, 16 July 2010

2 pm. The rampage of rain. My wooden house on stilts sways at every forceful swish of the wind. In the dark somnolence of sky and earth, the rain acquires a distinct voice of its own, veering to a baleful lamentation, harsh and edgy. And I sit still through all its spectacle.

Just a couple or so of days ago, a storm back home in the Philippines wreaked havoc on lives and infrastructure once again. A long power outage caused inconvenience to my teenage niece as she could not go online to get on with her social life on Facebook; while in the midst of this storm- I found out from my poet friend Jim’s blog, he who has long taken the climes of South Africa- “a woman and child were crushed by a falling tree”, and a man was swept away in the raging torrents of a river.

In all certainty, my folks and countrymen will find themselves more on a periodic run from the monsoon slashers, these typhoons and storms. And the memory of last year’s great deluge in the capital is still fresh and the threats of visitations are warily taken.

When the rain ceases I get on with my life. But its voice never really dies down. It’s lodged somewhere in my mind and shimmers at the edge of my dream.

Koh Kong, Cambodia


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