Wall 2 / 2000
Introduction
We are well into the second year. Good! So let's cut the crap and begin.
The Editors
7 February 2000
Whisper Behind The Cold Bars of Exile
THE unfamiliar lair I find myself
in is motherless.
The rats gnaw the sheet
that by now my bed has teeth marks
engraved on it,
desecrating the sheet's aged heart
protected by its bark
against storms, sun and cold
years ago.THE cold fingers of the wall
that jut out of its body
divides my vision in queer rectangles.
Even at daytime, sunlight would pass
without kissing me.
She never finds her way along the gloom
even with her glowing eyes.
Even her blinding light
seems to be swallowed by emptiness.IT may take a while for the beads
to coil my fingers again.
The familiar shape of its head,
its core, that used to glow at night
now remains silent. The dark seems to
have eaten it as the rats have eaten my bed.THE dark has never been as glaring as before,
my hand never been as motherly as before,
my soul never been as dark as this.
My heart chose to elope with the memory of sunlight.
My body now lifeless.
---submitted January 2000
The bloody hands of Dr. Jose Rizal
YOU poor thing, little child.
such great guilt is laid on your palms.
You are burdened by a thousand cavans of rice
needed to feed your hungry world,
a world hungry not by lack of food.YOU poor thing, little child,
for in your little age you are suffering.
You labor in the fields under the tyrant sun
watering the barren soil by your bleeding blisters and
sweat.
Your fingernails that chose to rest on some
protruding stones
deserted that little comfort you had as you dig deep
into the earth's heart.POOR thing, you little child.
And I despise the man who gave you this much
burden.
He gave it to you who unwillingly accepted it.
Where is freedom there?
Where is the freedom your fathers have drenched
with blood?POOR thing, you little child.
That such a man could do these things to you.
He died a hero and left a legacy
that blinds your eyes.
So you'll refuse to see the wickedness in him
that is ridding this world of mighty individuals,
green and vibrant, ready to provide the world with
precious breath.YOU poor thing, little child.
You are forced to be a chameleon,
blending with the colors imposed by society.
And at the same time become a parakeet,
made to say what voices these are you hear.POOR thing, this little child---
you are made responsible for your actions
to become the hope of tomorrow.
Tomorrow is an unpredictable lair
for your youthful face to take charge of.
There is no freedom where demand has groped for
your throat.
The Quiet Spirit
THERE is a quiet spirit in here
and it speaks at night.
Telling of war stories in unknown lands.
Listening, dancing with its words is the dark.I WISH it to stop so I
may be free again.
My skin is dry by its speeches,
like a burning sun that dries my clothes.MY eye bleeds with drunkenness
as it pours its intoxicating words.
I can't sleep with the thought of death.IT tells these stories animatedly.
Its shadow providing visual aid.
Its arms coiling like a cobra.
Ready to strike me and lunge from the wall.THE once quiet spirit is no
longer quiet.
It speaks of death, famine, suffering and war.
It will rest later on, tired from reminiscence and pain.
It will again be a quiet spirit.
Eyes eager to tell more
with its soul dried of energy and passion.
---last two poems submitted February 2000
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