A SONG FOR OUR FATHERS
Imagine: We, gangrel of seventeen, have watched
the culling. Born of mirth, of myth, of void,
like Binondo-husked television sets – static overrun
or gorged out in flesh testimonies under broad daylight.
Reminisce your childhood hearth. Recollect all those
that you had once sown. Relive the names of your
forefathers, a withered daughter of mausoleum-turned
sins. We will dive, headlong, steadfast, into strife the
older had set up. This preamble wrung for us to
learn the value of our false degrees, broken industry,
incorrect skin. The world you loathe is led by white
men a thousand miles away. Torment grows a stranger
in the pickings of your skin, so be it that your mother
wonders why you hold your language second-hand.
Paradigm of distrust is my southbound severance,
letting go is easy. Rite runs from the narcos-smoked
world that had been forced on me. Rite runs from
Imus-donned wry, fun and nuanced with the way
it rolls off my tongue, estranged and intermittent of
my own depravities disavowed by diction. Or religion.
Or belief. Or lovers. Seventeen shall march towards
insolence, cutthroat hell laid as we dare to be again.
Seventeen holds the Rite of Genesis, untrusted sons
and malevolent daughters accosted of dead horizon,
evergreen to cheap brown or dollar culture. Though,
perhaps, we are the open for a reason. Anyway, all
my story is afterthought to your political agenda,
anecdotal brief to digress again. Pronounce rite for
once, my hearth filled me whole.
By Chia Amisola
Chia Amisola is seventeen year-old senior, a lover of language be it in the form of poetry or code, hailing from the scorch of Metro Manila.