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
BẠN ĐANG ĐỌC
The Mock Prophet with No Prophecy
Thơ CaWe must be responsible for all the paths we've chosen and and the things we are born with. This is a revelation, from a man for all the Filipinos and all the people around the world, but not a prophecy