v2
The world like a flower is whittled from a small piece of white wood. He said he cut it himself from the forest. But what is a forest but flowers waiting to blossom into a dam? The paradox: a foreman orders boxes of the wooden flowers from him to decorate a gathering of executives at the capital. At one time the lake was an archive of childhood. The marsh pages of a slam book filled with secrets. At another time they burn into a repository of sewage from a laborers’ barracks.
Here lies the dagger plunged into her heart.
He said the storm destroyed everything except the church. The eye of the storm was the eye of God. Teachers today however they are silenced. Like words leaving an activist’s mouth bulldozed by the downpour over the roof of an old house. Draw me the chapel instead atop the mountains on your paper. In Nagcarlan a cemetery waits for children who never came. In Pakil the mountains a cemetery.
v1
A flower is whittled from a small piece of wood the man cut from the forest. One of the foremen building the dam orders a handful of such flowers.
At one time, a lake is an archive of childhood memories. At another time, it is a catchall of sewage from a laborers’ barracks.
She said teachers are silent about the dam. Like words from the lips of an activist while rain pours over the roof of an old house. A tree drawn on paper by crayola multiplied cuts through silence.
In Nagcarlan, a cemetery waits for children who never came. In Pakil, the mountains, a cemetery.