Not Prepared Yet.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

when i was young
i like the struggle
and so we trekked the
mountains and they
call us comrades as
we continue our
political education
in the cliffs and
rivers below them.

being a rebel is
an honor and we drink
tribal wine and eat
roasted wild pigs being
cooked with their own
oil killed by the
children who already
knew how to survive
on their own skills.

bloody revolution they
call it, and dead bodies
are buried in masse without
the rightful mourners.

there is no need for
sentimentality for the
sake of the people and
the country, two imaginary
concepts which i discovered
lately and not as real as
bones and flesh.

and then you get older
filled with guilt for
what we did and what we
have not done and we
go back to the fold of
the church and crunching
religion like sugarcane
and peanuts with beer and
wine.

the story is long but
everything redounds to
poetry: a song for the
lonely heart, a confession
for the penitent, and
an autobiography for one
who still cannot tell
all the truths, because
these truths are ready
for the kill and not all
is still prepared to die.