My Beats And Pieces: of Her Death... And Him Poem by Jane Quijano

I really do not know them... in person
Or read about them fastidiously enough although I was a voracious one. Her, the one who was a poet that I could never be, even if I tried.

One who was from that elite of students
Where i was able to get in, passing through its  front door
And through the backdoor even.

Her, a brown beauty with a face that could launch a thousand bullets, not ships,
With her pen and her battle cry of injustices-
She immersed herself into the people's pain.

Then I heard and read of her death.
And I learned of her like the ones i heard of...
Young and bright from where I was.
They were the leader of the group.

And I read about him..

Another one. Dead.

End.

Like another pile of good men as of mortars to a wall?

Or firestones to make ready the big fire?