RIC S. BASTASA
This Sunday - Poem by RIC S. BASTASA
this Sunday i will be with Tony
my cousin with one arm left,
a machine ate his left arm,
his wife left him and his only son
does not recognize him anymore,
oh, it's a sad story, and it's
pity in real action, but i let him
he is a good mountain
this Sunday, we agreed on a trek
in Tabon, where the trees are still trees.
The path is narrow, and
the grasses are taller.
we do not hunt for birds,
we simply watch them.
we do not speak that much
we agreed to simply listen
the sound of the forest wind
the shadows of the hills cast by the setting sun
the mud on our feet
the sweat on our brows
at night, when we are all alone
we begin to tell our stories again
those where wives are not interested to listen
those which do not make husbands cry
over a cup of hot coffee
i recite a sad poem that i have not the courage to write for once.
now it is not about love
it is more about death and revenge
Tony will like it.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You