Stitches and Dreams
t was half past five before sunrise,
when darkness faded into the misty Saturday's dawn,
just an hour after a bloody confrontation,
but a brave woman descended into a blood-bathed
street of Lustre,
with hungry cats and mice on that battleground,
walking while her purple robe turned pale
with agony, pain and pity,
completely depressed by the horrible aftermath of war,
where bullet-ridden houses pounded by an insane belief of
terrorism as a means towards a divine end,
and victims died as tools for selfish political propaganda,
while thousands evacuated from the satanic bangsamoro reality
that enriched the few,
and too many had died under the brutality of corruption,
some were murdered by extreme poverty,
where social justice was just an unreachable dream,
she bled for such an elusive dream.
Yet she strolled in between ruined homes and
broken aspirations,
through the portal where blood drifted into nothingness
and souls decapitated by a turbulent past,
while her veil of blue moistened by tears of sorrow,
with eyes saddened by relentless conflict,
when the status of civilization was measured
by the degree of human barbaric atrocities,
and she knelt down before the walls collapsing,
torn into pieces by an extreme hate,
razed to the ground by religious fanaticism,
When would they realize to co-exist in harmony?
she asked her thoughts,
while tears tasted like bitter almonds,
flowing between her sweet scented cheeks.
The reason behind this violence she could not grasp,
but to shed tears of blood,
within her confusion was a lightning,
where palm leaves fell without solution,
yet she appeared with an angelic face,
with eyes shining brighter than diamonds,
while the moonsoon wind blew her veil,
floating over the decomposing corpse of a soldier
entangled between electric wires,
and the dead was brought to life like Lazarus.
He knelt down from death,
with his camouflage uniform torn by bullets,
but the wounds recuperated,
he recognized the blue veiled woman in front of him,
the divine blessed mother of Jesus,
he wept like a child,
and when his eyes opened,
the woman went back into
the holy Fort Del Pilar,
he forgot not the message from her,
'Son! When humans learn to depart from hatred
then there is no reason to pull a trigger against someone.'
It was half past five before sunrise,
when darkness faded into the misty Saturday's dawn,
just an hour after a bloody confrontation,
but a brave woman descended into a blood-bathed
street of Lustre,
with hungry cats and mice on that battleground,
walking while her purple robe turned pale
with agony, pain and pity,
completely depressed by the horrible aftermath of war,
where bullet-ridden houses pounded by an insane belief of
terrorism as a means towards a divine end,
and victims died as tools for selfish political propaganda,
while thousands evacuated from the satanic bangsamoro reality
that enriched the few,
and too many had died under the brutality of corruption,
some were murdered by extreme poverty,
where social justice was just an unreachable dream,
she bled for such an elusive dream.
Yet she strolled in between ruined homes and
broken aspirations,
through the portal where blood drifted into nothingness
and souls decapitated by a turbulent past,
while her veil of blue moistened by tears of sorrow,
with eyes saddened by relentless conflict,
when the status of civilization was measured
by the degree of human barbaric atrocities,
and she knelt down before the walls collapsing,
torn into pieces by an extreme hate,
razed to the ground by religious fanaticism,
When would they realize to co-exist in harmony?
she Asked her thoughts,
while tears tasted like bitter almonds,
flowing between her sweet scented cheeks.
The reason behind this violence she could not grasp,
but to shed tears of blood,
within her confusion was a lightning,
where palm leaves fell without solution,
yet she appeared with an angelic face,
with eyes shining brighter than diamonds,
while the moonsoon wind blew her veil,
floating over the decomposing corpse of a soldier
entangled between electric wires,
and the dead was brought to life like Lazarus.
He knelt down from death,
with his camouflage uniform torn by bullets,
but the wounds recuperated,
he recognized the blue veiled woman in front of him,
the divine blessed mother of Jesus,
he wept like a child,
and when his eyes opened,
the miraculous woman went back into
the holy Fort Del Pilar,
he forgot not the message from her,
'Son! When humans learn to depart from hatred
then there is no reason to pull a trigger against someone.'
Copyright © Gianni Pansensoy | Year Posted 2013
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