somewhere in
negros occidental
the exact name is
la carlota
another soul
is restless upon
an unwritten
poem
tomorrow morning
he will be the first
thirsty man
to buy cheap coffee
in the marketplace
of the common
people
i expect him to be
calm and
silent, in another moment
of solitude
a rock amidst the
crowd,
filtering the meaning
of his dreams,
of course, it is
not easy to know him
i do not dare
his secrets are too
many
sometimes we talk
about what we are not
interested in
and i can sense it
everything seems to be
a literature of
evasion rather than
passion
somethings they say
cannot be passionate enough
to entice us
to stay., , ,
one lady who just passed
the bar
yelled, and declared,
'you think that it is
just for the passionate?
you are wrong'
there are duties to papa
moral obligations to the church
respect for what we do not like to
do but must be done just the
same
because, because we are not alone
in this world
and we cannot really survive
without them, she concludes
tomorrow she will be honored
with a party in the village
a pig will be slaughtered and
she will be the talk of the town,
she will marry the man
that she does not love but
from time to time she will
travel to meet her true love
bound to another woman,
and the same statement shall be made,
'some things are done because
of duty, not necessarily passion'
passion somewhere else,
concealed, talk of the town,
shamelessly still in love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem