.tricikad Poem by reinalie jorolan

The sun must have brutish razors on its hands,
For it to peel me pigment after pigment…
Or iron hands maybe, to mercilessly squeeze the sweats
out my pores.., savagely unstoppable! ! ! !
Until I realized, I was in theTRICIKAD sheltered by its roof.

Then I heard this old driver’s sighs with a hell-like indifference,
Sweat moistening his body,
like a ravage rain soaking him wet.
Hanging him to the edge of his husky breath ….

I looked up to his face and behold his mocking wrinkles.
Deep to his ghastly sighs, I sensed hopelessness.
A vision of my country’s mirrors of cold-bloodedness,
Amidst the 35 degrees sun’s angry blaze,
Was that brutal chill of emptiness.
My heart and spirit were screaming for justice,
Where art thou my land’s promises? ? ?
And its God’s given myriad grace? ? ?

Despite my muted thoughts,
He pedaled on…towards what seems like eternity
His dilapidated façade felt like nature’s untimely animosity
My hair was raising…singing deathly tone for him and me…

Oh alight shall I…to pray I’ll try…to hope I’ll die
For my country’s heart,
Had been swatted like a fly…