an axe to grind

It’s late at night
And the voices are returning to your head
You tried to cease them, with all your might
In the hopes that they would never bother you again in bed.

They are the ghosts of your own making —
the products of your reshaping
But it’s time to rest
Don’t let them put you in test.

You’re alone at night
And the guns start firing away
Like the rest, like the rest, you wish to survive this day
Everything is red now, within your sight.

They fell down in heaps
And theirs is yours to keep
It’s time to rest
But you are now in test.

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Sventurato

I found my feet again on that barren ground
where everything is bleak and you’d hear no sound
Footsteps break the silence of the land
and I woke to find myself trapped in the muddy sand

Several hands beckon me
but no one dared to answer the plea
The weeping voie is near — so loud, so clear
I see you dear
Can you hear what I hear?

Your hand clutched mine
but it shook with doubt
You stooped… you pulled me up

Your look is anything but clear
then I hear the bigots begin to cheer
Footsteps leave the silence of the land
and I woke to find myself with you,
in the muddy sand

Marahuyo

Tinutulak na naman
ng sunod-sunod
na silakbo ng aking puso
ang aking mga paa
upang tumungo sa iyo.
Dala-dala ko na
ang bulaklak na
ipinangako kong
dadalhin ko
sa susunod nating
pagkikita.
Ngunit, giliw,
nawa’y hindi
na muling tumalon
sa takot
ang iyong kaakit-akit na puso
sa aking muling
pagpapakita,
hindi na muling mataranta
hindi na muling madala
ng iyong mga paa
sa kung saan mang lugar
na malayo sa aking mga mata.

Alam kong sa iyong balintataw
ay ako’y kakaiba.
Ang imahe ko nga’y tao,
ngunit saan man ako magpunta,
bitbit ko
ang isang pares ng maliliit na
pakpak
na ililipad ako
sa mga malalayong kapuluan
kabundukan
at karagatan
na sa paniginp mo lang
maaaring masilayan
isang pares ng mahahabang
tainga
na unang nagpakilala sa akin
sa iyo at sa iyong
malambing na tinig
habang pinapaliguran mo
ang iyong sarili
sa batis na aming pag-aari.

Naalala ko pa
noong una kong sinabayan
ang buka ng iyong mga labi
na bumubulong ng mga pamilyar
na berso
ng musika
sa iyong pag-ahon.
Pagsuot mo
ng iyong mga damit
ay agad kitang sinundan
patungo sa inyong bunggalo.
Lihim kitang pinagmamasdan
sa magdamag
at sa pagpatak ng dilim,
sa wakas
nabuo na
ang aking mura at inip
na puso
upang magpakita sa iyo.

Nakahiga ka noon
at ngumiti-ngiting nagbabasa
ng
isang libro
nang inilitaw ko
ang aking sarili sa iyong
harap.
Sariwa pa sa aking gunita
ang iyong malaking mata
na takot na
tinitigan
ang aking hulma
mula ulo
hanggang paa.
Tanda ko pa
ang malakas na paghiyaw
ng “Tulong!”
ng iyong bunganga.
Nahulog mo ang hawak
na libro
at agad kang kumaripas ng
takbo.

Nang sunod kitang silipin
sa iyong kwarto
ay hindi ka na nag-iisa.
Kasama mo na ang isang babae
na marahil
ay iyong ina.
Nangamba akong
hindi na ulit ako
makapagpapakita
ngunit isang hapon
ay naabutan ulit kitang
nangingisda sa batis.
Tinago ko
ang aking pakpak
at mahabang tainga
at dahan-dahan,
muli akong lumapit sa iyo.
Hindi bumilog sa takot
ang iyong mga mata
ni hindi ka man lang
kumaripas ng takbo
upang ‘di na magpakita
bagkus ay ika’y ngumiti
at doon na nagsimula
ang isang pagkakaibigan
na di nagtagal
ay nagbunga
sa isang pagmamahalan.

At ngayon,
ngayong gabi
ay ako’y aamin
kung sino ako
kung bakit ako
naririto,
ipagtatapat ko na
ang aking
tunay na pagkatao.
Gayunman,
ako’y nananalangin
na iyo pa ring
iibigin
at lalambingin
ang kaulayaw mong
engkanto.

 

Who, really, has the power?

“Oh, I think not,” Varys said, swirling the wine in his cup. “Power is a curious thing, my lord. Perchance you have considered the riddle I posed you that day in the inn?”
“It has crossed my mind a time or two,” Tyrion admitted. “The king, the priest, the rich man—who lives and who dies? Who will the swordsman obey? It’s a riddle without an answer, or rather, too many answers. All depends on the man with the sword.”
“And yet he is no one,” Varys said. “He has neither crown nor gold nor favor of the gods, only a piece of pointed steel.”
“That piece of steel is the power of life and death.”
“Just so… yet if it is the swordsmen who rule us in truth, who do we pretend our kings hold the power? Why should a strong man with a sword ever obey a child king like Joffrey, or a wine-sodden oaf like his father?
“Because these child kings and drunken oafs can call other strong men, with other swords.”
Then these other swordsmen have the true power. Or do they?” Varys smiled. “Some say knowledge is power. Some tell us that all power comes from the gods. Others say it derives from law. Yet that day on the steps of Baelor’s Sept, our godly High Septon and the lawful Queen Regent and your ever-so-knowledgeable servant were as powerless as any cobbler or cooper in the crowd. Who truly killed Eddard Stark, do you think? Joffrey, who gave the command? Ser Ilyn Payne, who swung the sword? Or… another?”
Tyrion cocked his head sideways. “Did you mean to answer your damned riddle, or only to make my head ache worse?”
Varys smiled. “Here, then. Power resides where men believe it resides. No more and no less.”
“So power is a mummer’s trick?”
“A shadow on the wall,” Varys murmured, “yet shadows can kill. And ofttimes a very small man can cast a very large shadow.”
Tyrion smiled. “Lord Varys, I am growing strangely fond of you. I may kill you yet, but I think I’d feel sad about it.”
“I will take that as high praise.”
― George R.R. MartinA Clash of Kings

This is one my favorite quotes from Game of Thrones, so far (I’m still on S02!). It gave me so much insight on pretty much all the drama that’s going on in the show, and most importantly, power. Powerful people will not be so powerful if people don’t believe they are. Like what Varys said, ‘‘Power resides where men believe it resides.” People have different principles and core values. Someone might be powerful to one, but not to another. There is power in our decisions, choices, and the trust we give. I’m sure there’s so much more going on about Varys’s riddle. Moreover, it may even suggest that Varys is rooting for Tyrion Lannister for the Iron Throne (Is he?)

It was all that you left me.

A small, unforgettable smile was all that you left me.
It was a melancholic crease, something that wails deep from within.
It was a weak smother of a smile
for I only saw sadness,
nothing more, nothing less.
I never tried asking.
Maybe there was not even sadness.
Maybe it was just one of those fleeting expressions of the meager kind.
And so I never thought it would haunt me relentless
the night after I received the news of your death.

The night after I received the news of your death,
my heart’s serpent is still slithering to catch its tail,
hissing and rattling in indignation and disbelief
as if a predator just muddled through its ferocious sheltered haven.
It wraps its prey tighter, as the vast intruder approaches, waits.
The fire went ablaze, and slowly it leaves. I sigh in relief.
But memories of you kept on returning.
Those transient episodes kept on rewinding.
We walked home together just two weeks before you forever left.

We walked home together just two weeks before you forever left.
You had a quiet disposition, but the silence you had then
Was more fervent than what I knew.
It was one of those silences that rings throughout
and it was such a shame that I never breathed a word
about the frequencies of silence that is so near, it’s deafening,
other than those petty chatters that I knew wouldn’t help.
But you never said you needed help, did you?

But you never said you needed help, did you?
You blanketed your secrets up until the very end.
It was only your shadow that we see those five rapid months.
Those five rapid months, your stomach is inflating.
And you magnificently veiled it so well, that
even your mother failed to fathom it all.
We wished you sent out subtle affirmations.

We wished you sent out subtle affirmations.
Or even better, a direct confession that could’ve changed it all.
It should be hard, it should be painful.
You must be thinking just that.
What would I do, if I were in your place?
Maybe I would succumb in fear, too.

Yes, maybe I would succumb in fear, too.
But it’s not the future of the child that I would fear.
It’s them— the people around, the naysayers.
Yesterday, I heard them again, chattering, pointing fingers.
Most of their fingers still point to you.

Most of their fingers still point to you.
And how I wanted to cut each of those fingers in half.
Does it really falls down to this?
Do we really have to know who’s to blame?

Who’s to blame? Who’s to blame?
Does it matter?
You’re already gone.

You’re already gone.
And a small, unforgettable smile was all that you left me.

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