father said...

my father told me that i should do two things. leave the place where i came from. then come back.

of course he tasked me to make sure i have something good to bring back.

and not only that, but i should also never forget where i came from, no matter if its half a world away from where i stand.

when i remember these instructions of my father, it dawned to me that i may have to disobey him.

in the first place, everyhting that could have made me happy and safe and warm have already left me. i dont really have to leave this place, for everything good and decent in my life have already packed their suitcases and left.

and yeah, they are now half a world away from me.

and yet...and yet...

perhaps, i should try it. who knows?

anyway, here's something for people who have left their homes...read on...

------
Lament for Mother Zamboanga
by d. steine

To call her Mother
And then abandon her,
As if she was sick, diseased, crippled
And invalid for whom we can do
Nothing.

Of how you, my brothers and sisters
Set your eyes now amidst
Forests of skyscrapers lined
With concrete snake paths,
Gazing towards her
Whom you left in her bed.

I wonder how many of you know
That the land of milk and honey
Was not once always so:
Milk came from cows who gazed the land
Who filled it with stenches of their defecation;
The honey flowed from the constant hum
Of worker bees toiling in spring,
In summer and in the first days of autumn
Because they could not do so in winter,
Because in winter many of them will die.

The land of stars and stripes was born
From men and women whose hands
Kept the souvenirs of scars
from sharp and heavy stones,
piece by piece laid out
under the supervision of the taskmaster,
the sun who whipped and whipped
until sweat poured from pours,
piece by puzzle piece placed:
herbs, spices, meat,
water, vegetables, and salt
into the pot, to make soup for dinner.
The stripes came from the tunnels
Shoveled by time on their brows, foreheads and cheeks,
Where flowed a stream of sweat
Piercing the eyes, towards the arches of noses,
Down to a trickle on their chin.


I do understand how cold
are the fires of hunger
burning in ones belly,
far colder and crueler
than the winters you now have to endure.

I only wonder,
And so I ask of you
When are we going to toil
The garden of our Mother,
Her earth, her wind and her seas
As others have done for their own?
---------