Ang Batang Itinakwil 

Marahan lumalapit ang mukha ng hari ng mga kaluluwa, hawak ang tanging kandila sa kaharian ng kadiliman, isang papalit na bituin sa mundo o kometa. Ikinukulong ng bisig ng ina ang pumipiglas na anak, ang nasasakdal, ang saksing paulit-ulit isinasambulat na parang granada ang katotohanang nakita. Ngayon ang araw ng hatol. Tumayo ang hari sa gitna at pinanindigan ang makakita ng liwanang na hindi mula sa kaniya ay kasinungalingan. Ilang daang taon na silang namumuhay mag-isa, walang inaasahang langit o impiyerno, payapa sa lilim ng makulimlim na pangakong liwanag ng hari. Pinabuksan niya ang pinto, lumantad ang malawak na kadiliman, nasilaw ang lahat sa itim, sapat upang hindi maaninag ang takot sa isa’t isa. Itinulak palabas ng mga kawal ang batang biglang naputol ang taghoy pagsara ng pinto. Kung tayo ay nasa kadiliman, pag-aalo ng hari sa ina upang malinawagan, kadiliman lamang ito sa loob ng sinapupunan.

 The Betrayed Child

The face of the king of spirits, who holds the sole candle in the kingdom of darkness, like a star nearing the earth or a comet, approaches. The arms of the mother lock the struggling child, the accused, the witness who repeatedly detonates the truth he sees like a grenade. Today is the day of judgement. The king stood up in the middle, adamant that whoever perceives a light other than the light emanating from him is a liar. How many centuries have they lived alone, without the hope of heaven or hell, peaceful under the shadow of the dim light promised by the king. When he ordered the door open, the expanse of darkness was entered, all were blinded by the blackness, dark enough for their fear not be seen by anyone. The guards dragged out the child, whose wailing was suddenly cut off when the door closed. If we live in the dark, the king reassures the mother for her to understand, this is just the darkness inside a womb.

Buto, Laman, at Iba Pang Nahahawakan

Naghuhukay sila sap ag-aakalang matatabunan ng lupa ang nakaraan. Umaga at gabi, pinaaahon ang lahat ng maaring magbigay ng pangalan sa kanilang kasaysayan. Bumabalik silang bitbit ang mabibigat na kalooban.

Malalim na ang mga taon ng paghuhukay. Maaari naman silang huminto, ibaon sa limot ang panaginip, ngunit kumakapit sa kanilang gunita kahit sa pagtulog ang hubog ng buto, laman, at iba pang nahahawakan. Sa gitna ng gabi at kapatagan, tumitingala sila sa langit at inililigaw ang mga sarili sa dami ng bituin kung saan nasusukat nila ang ikli ng lalakbayin.

Isang umaga, isang batang kaluluwa ang naliligaw sa kanilang bayan. Wala itong pangalan o anumang pagkakakilanlan. Nagkulong ito sa isang silid, nanatiling tahimik, nagbasa ng mga aklat, iginuhit sa putik ang isang daigdig na walang sinuman ang nakauunawa.

Makalipas ang ilang taon, walang ano-ano’y bigla siyang nagwika: Sa dulo ng ikapitong buwan, sa wakas ng ikapitong burol at ikapitong ilog, maghuhukay tayo, naroroon ang ating mga bangkay.

Nagtipon ang mga kaluluwa at nagtaka kung saan ang tinutukoy ng bata. Wala silang alam na lugar maliban sa kanilang kinatatayuan, ni walang palantandaan sa langit ang kinaroroonan.

Ngunit binibigkas nila ang bawat salita ng bata na parang sa isang santo o propeta. Sa madilim na hamog, isa-isa silang yumaong sumasampalataya. 

Bones, Flesh, and All Things Palpable

They are digging in the belief that the ground covers up the past. Day and night, they surface all that can give name to their history. They return carrying only their heavy hearts.

The years of digging have now grown deep. They could have stopped instead, buried their dreams in forgetfulness, but they still cling on to their memory, even in sleep, of bones, organs, and all palpable things. In the middle of the night and the field, they gaze at the sky and surrender themselves to the multitude of stars with which they measure their brief journey.

One morning, the spirit of a child came to their town, lost. It had neither name nor identity. It kept itself inside a room, remained silent, read books, drew in the mud a world nobody could understand.

After a few years, it spoke without warning: At the end of the seventh month, at the edge of the seventh hill and seventh river, let us dig, for there is where our corpses lie.

The spirits gathered and wondered where the place the child spoke of is. They knew no other place aside from where they stood, nor any sign in the sky to guide them there.

But they uttered the child’s every word like that from a saint or a prophet. Amidst the dense fog, one by one, they died believing.

Muling Pagdating ng Sining

Puti katulad ng kanilang langit sa umaga, pinaliligiran ng mga lamat, mga ugat na palatandaan ng katandaan, maluha-luha nilang pinagpasahan ang bagong-tuklas na bungo, inihimlay sa putting tela, inilagak sa kauna-unahang dambana sa gitna ng bayan. Simula ngayon, tuwing tumititig sila sa isa’t isa, ang anyo ng bungo ang kanilang nakikita, ang pagkakakilanlan, ang kanilang iisang pagkakatulad, ang sagot sa katanungan. Itinigil nila ang pagbabasa ng mga aklat, ang pagtingin nila sa bituin, ang paghuhukay sa anumang nais pang ungkatin. Sinayawan nila ang bungo, inawitan, lumikha ng mga tula ng papuri, wala na silang mga muhi o hiya sa sinumang magtatangkang tibagin ang dahilan ng kanilang pag-iral. Naririto ang patunay, ang matitibay nilang kasaysayan na sa limot ay hindi muling malilibing. Nagsimula muli manalig ang kaluluwa sa sining.

The Return of Art

White as their sky in the morning, they who were covered with cracks, veins that were signs of age, tearfully passed around the newly discovered skull, lay it down on white cloth, enshrined it in the very first altar at the middle of the town. From then on, whenever they looked at each other, all they saw was the figure of the skull, its shape, the single similarity they share, an answer to the question. They stopped reading books, gazing at the stars, digging up whatever else they wanted to recover. They danced with the skull, sang it songs, composed poems of praise, they no longer had any contempt or disdain for whoever plots to erode the reason for their existence. Here was the evidence that their resilient history will never again be buried in forgetfulness. The spirits started believing again in art.

Harris Guevarra's first book of poems Osana is published in 2016 by High Chair, a nonprofit small press that aims to promote a genuine interest in poetry in the Philippines. He is also a businessman.


Bernard Capinpin is a poet and translator. He resides in Quezon City.