dusty, old and weary, the shacks of this place
offers only the inside comfort of its simplicity.
a bowl of Japanese noddles, salmon sushi, ebi tempura,
not here,
hot green tea, not here,
chinese humba, chopsuey, sweet sour pork,
bean curd, bird's nest soup, definitely not found here,
this is the place of the lowly, where the poor converge
and share their woes,
a cup of rice, carabao meat, fish stew,
under the nipa covered roof, an angry sun,
and a talk about an uprising,
on the other side of the house, some home made
firearms, some leaflets,
and camouflage....
nothing rocks here, something is boiling
it is hot, but it is different.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem