No gold grows in the cusp of silence

“Agtudo iti mabiit ta suyat ti bulan.”

The earth often thrives in abundance
Of ignorance, the stars peep once every breathing time
To remind the jungles; the parched land
Theirs is the heaven, cusped in their hands.
I see the dawn rise in red sometimes
To claim the brooding night
Thrash the tree dove in its roost
Scare the peasant who rises too
To take the scythe and slash his pains away
Cut his ignorance and his wants

No gold grows in the cusp of silence
The sages of the earth know that in homespun metaphors
The restless owls hoot, summoning the light
Fireflies congregate against the blackness
While we sit brooding over our wounds:
Tomorrow, tommorrow would be better
The harvest moon will scythe the stars away
Don’t folks say the rain would come
Dripping on its tip?

Listen, my brothers
There is a tale of the wave washing the rocks
With constant beatings.
Too, if we lit the night
With blood, with salt of our pure baptism.