In the Memory of Amb. Antonio Cabangon-Chua
(SINING AT KULTURA / by ED CORDEVILLA )
IN THE beginning, a dream,
Just hope, for a miracle,
As the love for a mother,
Like water, fulfilled its expression,
In the books that would run out
Of pages, in the distances measured
By sea-water or droplets of childhood tears,
In the barefoot journey of a son
Tracing the footsteps a mother paid the earth,
A vocabulary of need perfumed
By sweat and aspired apple that seduced
A soldier’s merciless kick on his fragile form,
The tormenting pain enough school allowance
Until graduation day, for the kick
Did erase his desire for the fruit
But did awaken a much deeper hunger,
There in that corner of memory
Where raindrops drowned his tears.
Out of her mother’s footprints
He grew treasures named after flowers
Of various kinds, where her mother
Laughed in lovely amusement he built
Mansions to house her sweet echoes,
The streets where they, mother and son, walked by
He littered with gold and compassion for the poor,
In the cities where no door used to open for them
He built thousands of rooms
That even the spaces would often lose the right count.
The life-dance of mother and son
Gracefully, gracefully created prayerful music
Such that the heavens applauded with blessings
After blessings, until what was a dream
Became tangible like an empire,
And it was their humble beginnings
That finally felt like a dream.
But, it was not a dream,
The kick in the gut left a scar
In him, for how many youths did he
Lend a hand to so they could reach
Their own stars? So they could escape
The mark of a combat boot on their souls?
After selling to them his dream
Morning after morning, the cities did
Not really forget their hunger,
In fact, they still sniff for his familiar scent
Even long after he left mirthfully with the sun.
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