Song of Years

by: Francis C. Macasantos

It would be nice to have a house
with a yard big enough to put a garden in.
In front of the house, of course, facing the sunrise.
I suppose they must have gardens and gardens of these
out there in the country, where they came from...
So early in the morning yet, yes?
Jeepload of them I hear.
Only, I never get to wake up that early.
It must be nice to have a job like that...
Just pick them at early dawn
and you've got room and board, yes?
It would be nice to put them under the pillow-cover
and let their sweet perfume put you to sleep.
But how would I know where they end up
before I get to sleep, somewhere?
The poor things... they gey wilted and dusty
at the end of the day. But my customers don't complain.
Mommy says to smile and offer up the garland
Until the fellow bends. Ha! Ha! Then you can see his scalp!
But you must gently shake your head if he dig for some coins.

by: Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.

by: Rene Estrella Amper

Pete, old friend;
there isn't really much change
in our hometown since you left.

This morning I couldn't find anymore
the grave of Simeona, the cat we buried
at the foot of Miguel's Mango tree,
when we were in grade four,
after she was hit by a truck while crossing
the street. The bulldozer has messed it up
while making the feeder road into the mountains
to reach the hearts of the farmers.
The farmers come down every Sunday
to sell their agony and their sweat for
a few pesos, lose in the cockpit or get
drunk on the way home.

Written by Amador Daguio, I first read this during 3rd year college in our Short Story subject with Ma'am Linda Espinosa, then our Department Head. Since then, this has become my favorite short story by a Filipino writer.

Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the headhigh threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness.

“I’m sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it.”

The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled roars of falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. There was a sudden rush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness.

But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred the covered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room brightened.