Variation on the word Samsara (Dream Journal #12)

It is one of those places we see on Sci-Fi movies:

this district, its war-torn walls, even Pasig river,
is shrouded in newspapers and moss,
then took the ability of cement
to build skyscrapers from our recklessness
in the arresting hands of opulence.
But I can lift one leaf and rummage its pages:
“X Wins Presidency, 6-Month Clean-up Starts
Tomorrow,” says the headline; “Save The Trees!
Recycle!” says another, and other news
which we excrete everyday.

The sky is an orange peel clouded with mold;

Half-dark, half-lit: day shifts between dusk and dawn.
Flocks of mayas navigating on this wasteland
align themselves into hands: all fingers curled,
except the longest one, while screeching a dirge
to what have we become: we fail to feel.

One must learn how to breathe the musk,

Carried by centuries’ worth of conquering.

Not to mention, Nowhere Man played in loop

in a clock tower nearby; I am the only human being left,
the last to see this ruined soil
yet, I am not alone.

Suddenly, the photographs unlearns inertia:

men and women in red cry for rice,
and receive bullets as a token of appreciation
for all their hard work, feeding the ones
who gets more what can they chew;
a tree slashes my other foot with what’s left of its leaves,
blaming me for turning its ancestors into pencils,
choking with lead; a white rabbit tries to hop
away from electric snakes that came from
fallen utility poles.

This place was once our Mother;

We, her sons and daughters, are busy growing up.
This is the change we asked for: to be distant
And here I am, walking on her, barely breathing.
I watch every life form return to her womb:
Mend in green. Rest in greed.