They wrote their stories in the fields they farmed
fields that disappeared with the passing of time
their nipa houses that sat on stilts
now long replaced by houses of cement and bricks.
Nobody knew from where they came
their past and their future paled to their now
hollowing out life from the land
to which they were born, to which they were bound
Simple folks, unlettered and without guile
did not think to leave any personal memorial
but for rare photographs in some forgotten bin
showing sun-kissed faces, ageless and stern
How grave they looked. Not a hint of a smile
was bequeathed upon their children’s children
what difficulties could they have faced
that rubbed the joy off their countenance?
Alas, we have lost our inheritance –
the stories that could no longer be retold.
Our ignorance and the passing years
had made strangers of our ancestors
but for the blood flowing in our veins
that brings us back to from where we came –
in that hamlet enriched by our forebears’ hands
only their gravestones tell us their name.
For DVERSE POETS’ Poetics: Your Family History. Another photo-finish piece. My husband said – it has possibilities. It is his nice way of saying that this still needs some polish. 🙂
Thank you for coming by.