The Mock Prophet with No Prophecy

Then what we know in knowing things has been easy

For listening is the means of knowledge truly

Yet it blurs to learn that this man needs it

For mockery will be a meaningful person to the future

There’s this man whom Tragedy is his wife and mistress

Whom garments are dilapidated and frayed

Baubles, taboo charms are his worn jewelry for aptness

Singing above Manila’s skyscrapers and dirty sidewalks:

“O hear me you foreigners! Foreigners to their own land

  You became foreigners to your native land, graciously”

The man faltered, but sustained and upholds his poise

People maintained, but others went away to not waste time

“O I am just the metaphor of a babbling megaphone

  I who starred in every nationalistic film and the like

  I who will use flowery adjectives for the worst, maybe

  I who will not use metaphors to attain meanings

  Maybe, maybe not”

“Look to what you’ve wore, verbalized and ate; poisons

  As I am predisposed to this syrupy poison as well

  As I’m not a seer who stands in this sunburned place

  But maybe just a paid extra in a movie, maybe not”

“Can’t you put up with to hear my prior metaphors?

  Gaze beyond to see the sky once roofed by Islamic palaces

  Peek down to see the once loamy floor with wild foliages

  Can’t you distinguish the Kingdom of Maynila here?”

The man had now touched the rift of what is fantasy

The man had now seen what the ancient is reminiscent of

His eyes metamorphosed of what is urban to rustic

Grimy buildings were formerly bastions in his vision

He stated of his fantastic veracities and all things he felt

All he sees, not what he envisages, he proclaimed

The Primordial was so grand, so cold and so alive

That made him feel he’s the foreigner in this place

“Ah, I now visualize what History’s gems told us

  This place we call Maynila, such a flawed pioneer!

  I see this grand ground as of pure grandeur

  Native the people there, in deeds and actions!”

“This is Serulong, the city where riches flourished

  Where all was rich and prosperous, a punch in our egos!

  Now this is Maynila, the once Serulong I loved

  Not all people is poor, but poor in senses and notions”

“Maybe a mock, maybe not a mock, but apologies to you

  I mock the literary verses which must be of standard value

  Out of pure mock reveals true shadow of our land

  Then I realized Past is always distinct, incongruous”

The man in mystical poorness just wept and mourned

Pity of the land was within him so he moaned

For pitying himself was the greatest pun he joked

Compared to the land all the people grieve for