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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3468 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention At the Foot of Mt. Mayon Marty Abuloc ....nevertheless there is something familiar about this country. Slowly we begin to recall The terrible whispers of our elders Falling softly about our ears In Childhood, never believed till now. Donald Justice Come to where precipices of Mt. Mayon are visible in their regularity, and be still with the crowd of grey figures in solemn quietude. A sad wind howls, the whisper of grass is written in bare feet. A flower holds onto a thin root, raped by last night's storm; it waits for prophesied rain. A belfry rears its strange head, legends of its cathedral are buried below the slow rush of centuries. Here, an old prayer was recited, amen, pacem requiescat, and cries were poured into silent earth. Love in a simple geometric equation, the exactitude of that single spire molded by a great wind, figures draped in black sorrows, murmurs of those who remember and the early fog that spreads upon the landscape below that perfect cone is love, nothing less. The curves, the gentle slope, the wisp of smoke above the peak sing of memories and the knots of flesh and tears scattered in strange places in her ageless womb. |
