Is Tatay dead?

Why do you leave me with questions?

Questions after questions after questions….

The asking is as un-filling as the answers,

As though pouring water on a holed cauldron.


How can I believe?

And yet, how can I not believe?

How can unhappy dreams and painful reality marry,

Making the past never again to be retrieved?


One night, that sharp razor came to slice my heart;

It came the night next, and treaded the old wound’s path again.

Am I to blame then should I choose not to lie down

Lest I die, drowned in tears and searing pain?


What a dark, dark path this is!

Darker than the darkest of nights perhaps,

Deeper than the deepest Mariana’s ocean….

How can I then stop asking, with sighs and gasps?


Were I to plead for what-ifs and could-have-beens,

The pain, the wound, still wouldn’t mend…

Much less the thought of future hope, a mere flicker,

A leap of faith to unknown’s end.


How many more sighs?

How many more tears?

How many more groans of surrender

Uttered by a daughter drenched in despair?


Each step, each painful, laborious step,

Is made with every ounce of strength

As each day passes and I still ask

Is Tatay really dead?


But here, in this darkness, is where I yet should be.

For wherever I turn, still this the way for me

I guess I’ve moved, I guess I haven’t.

How can I know, except when my eyes will be made to see?


And so I sigh, once, and then a thousandth time,

If only to take in that sweet scent from somewhere.

Do I really hear rumors, or are they just leaves’ rustles?

Oh these questions - Hope is their dweller.


/March 22, 2011

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