By Luchie Maranan
There is lingering wailing for the dead
They who were snatched in the dark alleys,
Pitched into the dictator’s fields of blood.
There is boundless grief over the passing
Of those whose eyes were forced shut,
Memory erased to delete safe houses and torture dens.
As if lament for the unforgotten names
Can be wiped like stubborn stains
By the unrepentant tormentors striding
The corridors of power, reclaiming their throne,
Dipping into the bottomless pit of their loot,
Oiling their cogs and wheels to ram down justice.
There is seething, overcoming rage
Seeking retribution for our dead and disappeared.
Ours is a continuing story asking to be retold,
Our is a wounded history seeking not to be repeated,
There are cries that cannot be quieted because
Heroism twisted, redesigned is replaying untruths.
Be warned against mocking an ocean of wrath,
The rumblings and tides of wrath will wash over
A rite’s proclamation of a hideous beast whose
Sham glory and infamy cannot be buried.