(To the Lepanto proletarians) <br /> <br />Not the wind, my child. <br />It is the ululation of women who <br />regard their pots unacquainted with <br />a grain of rice since the day <br />before last and before last. <br />The robbers seized the harvest <br />and braced the bank. <br />A mother beckons the neighbors. <br />They congregate around a fire that for a <br />drawn-out time has not scorched animal heft. <br />They cuddle babies squealing for milk <br />and nourish their souls with love and the <br />ancient wisdom that what goes up must <br />come down. <br /> <br />Not the rain, my child. <br />It is the tears from lachrymal glands of <br />fathers whose hearts are shred in fragments <br />as the self-proclaimed gods <br />mercilessly snatch the spoons <br />from the mouth of their children. <br />The stomach is void <br />but esurience animates the spirit <br />and stokes the struggle <br />to oblige the gods to unshackle their clutch <br />on the gold beget by beads of <br />perspiration and blood of the proletariat. <br />The beat of Igorot gongs muffle the slander <br />flowing unrestrained from the vocal chords of <br />the gods who mock a beautiful culture <br />as immemorial as time <br />to disguise their trepidation of <br />liberty. <br /> <br />Not a song, my child. <br />But like a song it is a tongue of the soul: <br />A familiar voice from the bowels of the grave- <br />Workers of the world, unite! <br />You have nothing to forfeit but your chains <br />and a world to gain. <br /> <br /> -21 October 2005<br /><br />Cheryl L. DaytecYañgot<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-the-wind/
