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.