Pista Sa Gadan, Kinaagahan / All Souls Day, The Morning After Poem by Jaime Jesus Borlagdan

Dai mo huhunaon na Nobyembre ining aga.

Agang kinuramos kan paros an tunog.

Arog sa kinaagahan kan katapusan kan kinaban
an mga kalag na naguong sa satong panganoron
gagaboton kan kalamias kan kahewasan.

Mahahanggianan an tikab sa pagsakat kan gabat.

Ta napasain su girabo kan uran
hadok kan ngabil kan mga naghahayang gadan?
Napasala garong panahon, ta mga rignos nakatugdon
sa koryenteng inalambre, nagtatawong alingahot kan Marso
sa mga bulan na benditado na kan lipot, sambay kan bagyo?

Nagngangarakngak an kalag ko
ta pigsusurod an sinaringsing sa palitada.
Sa dagang ining parong ki gadan na kandila
nagagango pa man an satuyang papa.
Bako makangalas
na ini aldaw ki Nobyembre?

Maski sa mga atop nagsasangaw
an higos kan udto?
Maski an agrutong kan de mano
hapiyap sa talmag kong boot.
Dangoga, nagngangarakngak
an kalag ko.

Nakakasibog daw kita sa panahon
kan satong pagkaaki
pagminaulok na arog kaini?
Sa ikos na pigbugaw an rignos
sa gilid kan pigbalad
sa trangka na buminurikat na daing takot
sa sildang, sa huyop-huyop na kinutaw
sa tubig kan asul na langit.
Sa pagbuklos ta padulag
bakong ini an kasagkodan
kan satuyang pagdalagan?
Kapkapa sa tikab ko,
nagngangarakngak an kalag ko.

Nobyembre 2 2004.Karangahan

English:

You wouldn't suppose this is a November morning.

A morning the wind washed itself with dew.

Like the morning after the world has ended,
the souls stuck in our atmosphere
will be plucked by the arms of the universe.

The chest will be relieved by the ascension of the weight.

For where did the terror of the rain go
kiss of the lips of the trembling dead?
Perhaps a mistaken weather, for sparrows are perching
on electric wires. Haunting heat of March
in the months already anointed by the chill, mistress of storms?

My soul is laughing
for the second sprouting of palay is combed in the pavement.
In this soil with a dead candle scent
we are still able to dry our food.
It's not surprising
this is a day in November?

Even in the roofs reek
the activity of noon.
Even the groan of the tricycle
is caress to my soaked spirit.
Listen, my soul is laughing.

Are we able to withdraw to the time
of our childhood
whenever we chuckle like this?
To the cat that wards off the birds
at the edge of the drying grains
to the gate which opened up without fear
to the ray, to the breeze concocted
in the water of the blue heavens.
In our fleeing retreat
isn't this the dead end
to our running away?
Feel my chest,
my soul is laughing.