Not The Wind Poem by Cheryl L. DaytecYañgot

(To the Lepanto proletarians)

Not the wind, my child.
It is the ululation of women who
regard their pots unacquainted with
a grain of rice since the day
before last and before last.
The robbers seized the harvest
and braced the bank.
A mother beckons the neighbors.
They congregate around a fire that for a
drawn-out time has not scorched animal heft.
They cuddle babies squealing for milk
and nourish their souls with love and the
ancient wisdom that what goes up must
come down.

Not the rain, my child.
It is the tears from lachrymal glands of
fathers whose hearts are shred in fragments
as the self-proclaimed gods
mercilessly snatch the spoons
from the mouth of their children.
The stomach is void
but esurience animates the spirit
and stokes the struggle
to oblige the gods to unshackle their clutch
on the gold beget by beads of
perspiration and blood of the proletariat.
The beat of Igorot gongs muffle the slander
flowing unrestrained from the vocal chords of
the gods who mock a beautiful culture
as immemorial as time
to disguise their trepidation of
liberty.

Not a song, my child.
But like a song it is a tongue of the soul:
A familiar voice from the bowels of the grave-
Workers of the world, unite!
You have nothing to forfeit but your chains
and a world to gain.

-21 October 2005