Monday, August 11, 2008



Manila is a woman smiling through a mask of paint,

Breasts irradiant with cosmic challenges

And invitations to the rivers and the meadows of the explorable infinite,

An urgency at an intersection

With a clique of clubbing ruffians from behind.

Manila is a courtyard with quiet flowers

And unobstrusive walls,

A symphony in stone and wheels and sun

Blinking through roofs and grills,

Ending in an arc of blue sky.

A wilderness of streets dripping with blasphemy and imprecation of drivers,

A deceiver for faces appearances, distances, similarities,

A mendicant of habeas corpus and corpses,

A pandemonium, a morgue, a shrine,

A bus driver counting out his bills,

MalacaƱang, preposterously a symbol of national unity 

and the four anti-communist  Freedoms.

A city where God lives once.

For Manila is a sprig of orchids in a roof-garden above the smoke and noise.

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