Slumped on this bus seat
beside the window,
the rain outside
pelting the nipa houses,
naked children with bloated bellies playing,
their ginger-like feet stomping
on puddles,
I had lost track of my destination.
Only the whistles of the wind
sweeping through the talahib
and the giggle of small voices
echoed within me a dream
I have never lost:
to be a naked child
under the gray sky,
hands of water crawling on sunburnt skin.
I had lost track of my destination,
had forgotten mountain trails,
red flags
guns
deaths
anger
wars
the world.
Then the bus lurched forward.
—-
Cherry Alcantara believes there is more to art than aesthetics and social realities. She is a graduate of UPMin.