Saturday, January 24, 2009
Past the imposing Arayat,
The bus marches through vast armies of sugarcane,
Red-purplish stalks standing like identical soldiers
Upon the brown earth, against the martial sun.
From my window to the world,
Your tropical island adjoins mine
Though only in dreams.
The panorama of sugarfields
Unravels the force of saccharine loves
Silent as crystals
But brave as platoons of canes
Facing death in
Negros’ battle mills
Seeing light as sugar, sweet,
Pure in body and spirit.
Many are the armies, but one.
Traveling north is always shuttling somewhere:
There, the voices are muted—only hearts speak
And even when the sun spares tomorrow,
Always, there are the sugarcanes to follow.