…. And the music played… and so the lyrics moved….
This heart… and in this heart, I am living in the past:
I saw not my father's heart or his arms around me;
Neither his hand dug into morsels of rice to my lips,
Nor his belt to my butt or bamboo whips to my skin,
But his fingers ran through my hair when I had sinned.
His path to follow his love which I knew not then,
His strength to stand with feet in muddled ground,
It's not how he walked barefooted on a slippery-road
But to carry me from dirt, on his shoulder, he would.
His voice, when authority spoke, either high or low,
To command his carabao, it wasn't his power to show,
With no fear under rain, lightning, or thunder's sound,
I am this farmer's son and his valor for me was unbound.
It wasn't all of what he knows best that I must learn,
Toil a soil, drive a nail, paddle a raft, or centavo to earn,
But from dikes of ricefields to city streets of Agana, Guam,
Through his eyes, I saw my father's dream how I become.
….. Then the lyrics ended and so the music had died …….
But in this heart and only in this heart my father lives.