Grey
is the color of the urn, and the rain
kills herself in each drop of her tears
in this sepia landscape of minarets
and spires where life is a cocoon
of regrets. As we wait to become
somebody else, the absurdities
of the world multiply a hundred
times in the yawn of the drunkard
every time he spits curses. That is
how life works my friend. Our tragic,
yet heroic failure to keep everything
from disintegrating into ashes
of irrelevance, for we are left
with nothing but only our caffeinated
kisses in a dull sunset, tattooed
across the earth. While the phantom
of your father forever lingers
in the corners of your home,
all you can ever do is smile
and be still. So listen to the sighs
of the river, for our gangrene wounds
continue their endless parade in the church.
After the Storm
Find the torso of your father beneath
the rubble. Hidden in the labyrinth
of wreckage are the hopes of the dead,
buried three days ago. The weeping
multitude reminds us of their sunsets
and rainbows lost, forever. Now
grief is magnified like the image
of a decomposing limb, protruding
out in the open, as if to say,
We are merely pebbles of flesh
to be offered to the earth—
My friend, do you see
a flock of gulls gliding above
the indigo waters of the Pacific?
Outro
1.
Every night, there are rainbows
and funerals that heighten the magnitude
of grief in the aftertaste of loss.
And the harbor will always be empty
in our island of tears: a still life of rust
that gnaws at the bituminous heart—
2.
As the gulls glide through the nimbus
clouds, the silence of the mangroves
is haunting, such beauty of rapture
and sadness; the sight of the sea
beneath the moon, the rolling waves—
3.
But nothing will remain here,
here only the ashes of the echo
of our song, buried,
in the wreckage
of the future.
—Simon Anton Nino Diego Baena
Some of his works have already been published in Red River Review,
Philippines Free Press, Philippines Graphic magazine, Eastlit,
Dagmay, and Kabisdak
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