Tears Under The Sun Poem by Gianni Pansensoy

Once on Saturday's mid-afternoon,
between the amethyst sky and Zamboanga City,
the blazing sun cut through it,
my sight caught on a paled skin widow of silky black hair,
sailing on the turbulence of the streets suffocated with blood,
she journeyed between shells of M-16 and mortars,
her eyes of black almonds,
showed the mosaic pictures of her heart in bitter color,
and began to shed tears of schizophrenic depression.

She walked through the lines of dead bodies,
eyes protruded on swollen faces,
fingers cut from bloated hands,
hacked legs scattered on the streets,
some lost their lives before skinned brutally,
a very painful torture committed by the terrorist MNLF faction.

she knelt down before them,
trembling in anguish,
her soul,
imprisoned in a jail of stinky anger and retribution,
much more painful than death,
her sanity almost lost,
she held the cadaver of her kid by the hand,
hugged his body,
cold with pain,
his pale yellow skin darkened by gun powder,
the color of miserable death,
she cried like lioness,
the heart breaking roars flowed through with agony and sorrow.

Just 20 meters away from her,
fires razed the whole city into a bloody inferno,
the color of everything in everywhere: Purple,
above were clouds blackened by the gruesome
feast of massacre,
a huge black smoke swept across the battlefield
of mass destruction,
the graveyard for innocent victims,
and their souls blew with the blood-scented wind.