This is my song, my prayer

How I wanted to sing a song aloud, so very loud

But my voice  shriek because my tongue is anchored.

How I wanted to chant to the aria of my people

But my lips are tightly zipped.

How I wanted to dance the dance of my forebears

But my feet are twisted and chained.

How I wanted to clap to the sound of gongs of the Lumads

But my hands are on my back and fettered.

How I wanted to gyrate to the rituals of the Babaylans

But my whole body is firmly bounded into a dollar post.

                       

I tried to look around but I could not see.

It is so dark, very dark!

Ah, my eyes, my eyes… they blindfold me and

I trembled as fears engulf me in totality.

Am I dead?  I’m a living dead!

Am I nothing now? Nothing!

I sent messages to my brain.

No response. Oh, no!

Please, take me out from this oblivion,

O God! I plead. 

 

Let me live, my Creator!

I want to be alive!

Please, keep my breathing… 

Ahh… I still hear the moans, the cries, the shouts of the people

Their songs, their dances, their rallies are still familiar to me.

I can see young and old, men, women and children,

Struggling, committed new faces

Into my vision

As I continue to discern into my dreams. 

Surely I would live and withstand whatever life brings.

 

Do not fear my people,

Go on with your chants and song and salutation

Hold on to your dream, faith, hope, and aspiration

Continue journeying together

Sharing lives as brothers and sisters

Linking arms in unity and affirmation

The God of history never cease breathing life

Into your beings as a nation.                                     

Then…  my anchored tongue speaks… 

 And my sealed lips begin to smile…

My chained feet move to dance

My fettered hands clench into fists,

My aching body gyrates

To the rituals of the Babaylans of the Cordilleras.

I see flicker of lights

Seeping through the hole of my blind as I watch multitudes

Breaking the golden chain and with passion

Chop the dollar post

Into tiny pieces… the dollar post and

The golden chain gradually turn into dust.

 

My people listen:       

 … the song of the masses, their rituals and dances

… their hopes and aspirations, and your struggles

… the soil you stand, the land you claim  your dwelling

… the chirping of the  birds, the rustles of the leaves in the woods

… the sparkling seas, the singing of whales in the ocean

The sound of life is whispering: singing, moving, calling…

Come my children, it is me: Your Mother. Your Father. Your Parent.

Together with you my people

 Our struggle will triumph and the dawn will surely come.

 And the sun will shine forever in this God given land.  AMEN. 

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