POEM
The work of a poet
is to look up in the sky
in its unchanging morning azure
and ask why its color
never languished, never turned
into crimson. Or into verdant maybe,
because it gave all those to leaves.
There are times like this I wake up
and rise early, to greet the wind
as she smiles back at me, as if this is the only time
somebody recognizes her, because she is so used
to having no appearance, nor face, nor feet.
While the noise intensifies this moment
of peace, roosters are crowing
louder and louder, worshipping
the rising sun in zest, even though
the clock has turned ten already. They are oblivious
in disturbing the night owls,
the roused, or those who resist to wake up
like my three cats in deep sleep,
curled up into each other, on top
of shoes and sandals,
hiding their tails, their closed snouts
glistening, their furry chests
breathing, deep, deep
wisdom of rest.
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The Original in Pilipino:
ay tumingala sa langit
sa hindi nagbabagong bughaw ng umaga
at tanungin kung bakit hindi nagmamaliw
ang kanyang kulay, hindi kailanman naging
pulang-pula. O berde man lang siguro, baka
dahil ibinigay na niyang lahat ito sa mga dahon.
May panahong gaya nito na maaga akong
nagigising, at babatiin ko at ngingiti sa akin
ang hangin, na para bang ngayong lang talaga
may nakakakita sa kanya, dahil sanay siyang
walang hitsura, o mukha, o paa.
Habang umiingay ang sandaling ito
ng kapayapaan, palakas nang palakas
ang nagtitilaukang tandang, nagpupuring
masigla sa umaahong araw, kahit pa
mag-aalas-diyes na. Wala silang pakialam
sa mabubulabog nilang mga puyat,
o alimpungat, o sa mga ayaw pang bumangon
gaya ng tatlong pusa kong tulóg na tulóg,
nakayupyop sa isa’t isa, sa ibabaw
ng mga sapatos at tsinelas,
nakatago ang mga buntot, makintab
ang mga ngusong tikom, humihinga
ang mabalahibong dibdib,
ang lalim-lalim ng dunong
sa pagpapahinga.
