(Pakikiisa sa laban ng Palestinian sa Gaza)
Ni NONILON V. Queano
17 July 2014 / New York City
Hindi ko iniisip sumulat ng tula
Tuwing mapapanood ko
Ang mga musmos at walang muwang
Na nagawak ang laman,
Dukal ang bungo, luwa ang utak,
Tila nilapa’t piniraso ang katawan,
At nangagbulagtaan
Pagkaraang mapuruhan ng bomba’t bala
Ng mga demonyong Zionista,
Sa gitna pa naman ng di pa rin
Mapatid-patid na katuwaan’t paglalaro,
Tagintingan ng maliliit na halakhakan sa hangin.
Ayaw ko sanang tumula.
Ngunit saan ba hahawak?
Paano tititigan,
Mga nagkalat na bangkay;
Matatagalan bang pakinggan
Ang palahawan ng mga ina’t amang
Walang sukat masulingan.
Papaano na ang kawalang-hanggan
Ng mga pusong musmos
Na idinadalit ni Wordsworth sa kanyang oda
Na dinramahan pa ng,
“Thanks to the human heart by which we live….”
Gayong di ko matanaw ni katiting na konsiyensiya.
Saan nga ba nangapadpad ang puso?
Namumuo’y pakikidalamhati’t galit.
At kung nasa sentro lamang ng lahat,
Di ko alam kung paano pipigilan
Ang manghamon ng patayan.
Minsan’y di ko mahagip kung paano,
Tuwing mapapanood ang mga hayop
(Pasintabi sa hayop)
Na Zionista,
Danga’t kailangang magsalaysay ng nakita,
At si Ernst Bloch, bukod kay Marx at iba pa
May sinabi na lagi kong alaala,
May Prinsipyo ng Pag-asa’t Pangangarap
At puso’y di sumusuko.
Subalit ang walang puso,
Isang sagitsit lang ay tagpas,
Uuurin,
Kung hindi man
Pupulbusin’t lulusawin ng pulbura.)
I COULD NOT THINK OF WRITING A POEM
(In support of the Palestinians in Gaza)
By NONILON V. QUEANO
17 July 2014 / NYC
I could not think of writing a poem,
Every time I watch this video
Of murdered children in Gaza,
With their flesh tearing out,
Skulls blasted, brains spilling,
Their bodies blown to bits,
As they fall,
After being targeted
By bombs and bullets
Fired by those Zionist maniacs,
Even while they, innocently, continue to frolic and play,
Their tiny laughter ringing still in the air.
I did not think I’d write a poem,
But what is there to hold?
How stare at dead bodies lying around?
Would I be able to stand the frenzied cries
Of fathers and mothers
Who have nowhere for refuge.
What becomes of that flash of eternity abiding
In innocent hearts
Of which a William Wordsworth sang,
Even theatricalized, in his ode:
“Thanks to the human heart by which we live….”
When I see no remorse or guilt.
Where, indeed, has the heart gone?
There were only sympathy and anger.
And were I at the center of it all
I might not have kept myself from hurling a challenge
And fought with them to death.
There are times I am unable to imagine how,
When I watch those Zionist beasts.
Except that what was seen needed to be reported.
And Ernst Bloch, apart from Marx and others
Said something that in my mind stayed,
About the Principle of Hope and Dreaming,
And the human heart that never yields.
Ah, but those with no hearts
Will be sliced off in a flash,
To rot away, be fed to worms,
Or otherwise,
By guns and bullets felled,
Blown up to a cipher,
And damned,
Condemned without a trace.
