How mighty are thy hands that the living chillingly dreads you? How tough are your nets that drags the young and old—why are you not merciful to spare the oppressed, even the oppressors?
Children full of heart and soul register with trusting in faith, trusting to live for another day, as the beauty and love of creation,
With no warning, no signal, you snap them all alone to a world unknown, adult not spared; they vanish in a splitting twist,
Clambered in flurry, the living, unsure of the next hour, weeps unreserved, yet you relentlessly searched and clambered for souls; souls not yours,
Forever he goes, departs—to whom is he sent, or did she know how?
They disappeared in awkward penury, in pain and bled out of life very depressively poor,
Why the cold hands, oh death, even in this land, as strange as it is, though inevitable, “Be thou as chaste as ice, thou shall not escape the calumny of mortals.”
(Leyte Landslide… Feb17, 2006)
