in cebu at the new
robinson's galeria
my niece asks me to pose
in front of that big
tarpaulin showing a number
of faces in their big smiles,
something new really but
i oblige for a pause
thinking that i do not have
to be a kill-joy in this family
occasion
she shoots my laughter trying
to compare it the artistry of
commercialism
i take a look after: mine is half-cooked
and theirs
as usual in the most professional manner
is well done.
what i think is that
and this i conclude: grief is always
personal and no amount of
commercialism
diminishes it. So far.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem