The Last Five Days

First part of the short story I’m writing and still figuring it how it flow…

Day One : Solitude

It was raining all night…

He stood from the sole chair that faces Sarangani Bay, a few miles down south. He could felt the cold air coming from the big window. 

How many moment he was on this, for how long his solitude will suffice his reclusion, looking back in college and to Emily Dickinson who wrote about it and to Thoreau on Walden that he read last summer. 

“damn that book…”, he muttered as he sipped the cold coffee. Rain started to fall again with terrible coldness. The mountain stared at him in silence as he retract back deeper in the dark.

He adjusted himself on the chair and started to write. He was a novelist that published two books already which been accepted by his reader. 

Could say that he was successful as a writer even though his income came mainly from the coffee farm of his grandfather who left it into him before it died.

His father disagreed on his decision who wants him go to law school but his love of language had pushed him to pursue Literature major. He just love reading even when he was a kid. No one could ever stopped him.

Today he received a letter from his father asking him to visit, Christmas is approaching and they had important thing to tackles.

He went at the kitchen when a soft knocked at the door startled him. It was John, the eldest son of their tenant. 

“Jake, the car is ready for your travel tomorrow.”, John said. 

” Thank you, would you like some coffee? “, he asked.

He poured another cup of coffee and offered one. The young man were like a younger brother to him. He had a small brother many years ago but it got pneumonia and didn’t make it. John took the coffee.

Then he went inside his room and prepared his things. Only few shirt and pants and notepads. He still going to write once he get there.

The next day, he was on the road. The sun came out and the storm already gone. It was a 4 hours drive but it was like a lifetime. He was thinking of his father and their hot argument the last time they’ve seen each other. It was his life and nobody will dictate him what he wants. A five long years of absence… Years that supposed he spent with them that he love.

— And now he was thinking what his mother look like. His older brother who always with him since they were a child, and still no news.

When he arrived, he removed his shoes at the car and went outside at the shore and walked barefoot. Their house, been renovated that been hit badly by japs bomb during the war. The seawaves murmurs. Pebbles chuckles when it rolled back on the shoreline. A soft gale wind, then he sighed.

A place where he used to run with his older brother Bein. The sound of their voice, their laughter and their dream on what they are going to do on their lives the first time they tried to drink coconut wine and rolled a cigarette smoke of encyclopedia Britannica from their fathers study room. Their old man were mad when he found out the missing part.

That they promised ‘no word’ — 

and every blow of leather belt hit on their skin made them toughed, biting their lips holding hand in hand with tears at their eyes, while their father voice became louder and louder, shouting,

 ” stupido.. stupido!!!___” 

Their mom crying outside. Then their father will barked, “Marissaaaa…” And she went inside trembling and their father slapped her hard, beat her until she laid unconscious on the floor.

Hatred still there, recalling those moment night after night after night. 

A soft touched on his face, and when he turned his head, it was his mom.

And he hugged her and she cried. 

No sound… just pained and partly half joy

“I’m sorry Mama…”, He said. 

They went inside the house and found his father on a big chair reading the Britannica, the same book that wreaked havoc their lives, why his older brother left that night.

Henry stood to shake his sons hand. Jake refused and pretending he doesn’t see it.

“Marissa, take a rest now.” Henry said afterward.

Jake noticed his father voice were softer and his mom smiled, as he kissed her forehead leading to her bedroom.

Jake were left standing frozen on what he witnessed. 

A few moments later, Henry sat beside him at the verandah.  Drinking tea, asking about his life. Few fishermen started to paddle their boat. The wave is gentler and large flock of birds flew towards the big acacia near the mountain cliff. 

” I know you didn’t take law. “, Henry started.

Jake sat silently. His eyes were fixed at the kerosene lamp from the boat who cast a fishing net in the water. 

“Things here have changed since you and your brother left.” he continued.

 Jake fist tightened, preferred not to speak. He still hurt at kind of life they were through after all these years.

After a while his father were shaking, 

” what have I done…” He said repeatedly as he cried on his chair.

“ It’s late. I need to rest. ” He said coldly, stood and went into his room.

Henry still on his chair crying.

The next morning Jake woke up and went at the kitchen. A garlic fried rice, fried tilapia, boiled egg were on the table.

Henry were on blue apron. His mother were peeling a banana and smiled when saw him approached, asking him to sat beside her. He kissed her forehead and hugged her leaning on the chair..

“How is your feeling today mom?”, He asked sweetly.

“I’m feeling okay now.” 

He poured tea on the cup. Henry placed a plate infront of him. He stood and went outside and never touched the food.

Henry and Marissa looked at each other. She saw pained on her husbands eyes but he tried to hide it. Henry is patting her back.

“Give him some time.” Marissa said softly.

 “ I will, I will. “



photo from shutterstock


Scent of Apples by Bienvenido Santos

A story we been studied at school, showing us how Philippine Literature, especially in written English had evolved dramatically, creating its own voice.

I would like to share, occasionally, by attempting to honor our men of letter and the account is for them alone.

From my previous post, I shared the poem of Jose Garcia Villa, how I love his stuff and Dr. Jose Rizal’s Mi Ultimo Adios, his farewell verse before he executed for treason against Spanish government who colonized us for 377 years. 

 This way, I could applaud their efforts and how we looked at them with admiration as a student of written language. 


When I arrived in Kalamazoo it was October and the war was still on. Gold and silver stars hung on pennants above silent windows of white and brick-red cottages. In a backyard an old man burned leaves and twigs while a gray-haired woman sat on the porch, her red hands quiet on her lap, watching the smoke rising above the elms, both of them thinking the same thought perhaps, about a tall, grinning boy with his blue eyes and flying hair, who went out to war: where could he be now this month when leaves were turning into gold and the fragrance of gathered apples was in the wind?

It was a cold night when I left my room at the hotel for a usual speaking engagement. I walked but a little way. A heavy wind coming up from Lake Michigan was icy on the face. If felt like winter straying early in the northern woodlands. Under the lampposts the leaves shone like bronze. And they rolled on the pavements like the ghost feet of a thousand autumns long dead, long before the boys left for faraway lands without great icy winds and promise of winter early in the air, lands without apple trees, the singing and the gold!

It was the same night I met Celestino Fabia, “just a Filipino farmer” as he called himself, who had a farm about thirty miles east of Kalamazoo.

“You came all that way on a night like this just to hear me talk?”

“I’ve seen no Filipino for so many years now,” he answered quickly. “So when I saw your name in the papers where it says you come from the Islands and that you’re going to talk, I come right away.”

Earlier that night I had addressed a college crowd, mostly women. It appeared they wanted me to talk about my country, they wanted me to tell them things about it because my country had become a lost country. Everywhere in the land the enemy stalked. Over it a great silence hung, and their boys were there, unheard from, or they were on their way to some little known island on the Pacific, young boys all, hardly men, thinking of harvest moons and the smell of forest fire.

It was not hard talking about our own people. I knew them well and I loved them. And they seemed so far away during those terrible years that I must have spoken of them with a little fervor, a little nostalgia.

In the open forum that followed, the audience wanted to know whether there was much difference between our women and the American women. I tried to answer the question as best I could, saying, among other things, that I did not know that much about American women, except that they looked friendly, but differences or similarities in inner qualities such as naturally belonged to the heart or to the mind, I could only speak about with vagueness.

While I was trying to explain away the fact that it was not easy to make comparisons, a man rose from the rear of the hall, wanting to say something. In the distance, he looked slight and old and very brown. Even before he spoke, I knew that he was, like me, a Filipino.

“I’m a Filipino,” he began, loud and clear, in a voice that seemed used to wide open spaces, “I’m just a Filipino farmer out in the country.” He waved his hand toward the door. “I left the Philippines more than twenty years ago and have never been back. Never will perhaps. I want to find out, sir, are our Filipino women the same like they were twenty years ago?”

As he sat down, the hall filled with voices, hushed and intrigued. I weighed my answer carefully. I did not want to tell a lie yet I did not want to say anything that would seem platitudinous, insincere. But more important than these considerations, it seemed to me that moment as I looked towards my countryman, I must give him an answer that would not make him so unhappy. Surely, all these years, he must have held on to certain ideals, certain beliefs, even illusions peculiar to the exile.

“First,” I said as the voices gradually died down and every eye seemed upon me, “First, tell me what our women were like twenty years ago.”

The man stood to answer. “Yes,” he said, “you’re too young . . . Twenty years ago our women were nice, they were modest, they wore their hair long, they dressed proper and went for no monkey business. They were natural, they went to church regular, and they were faithful.” He had spoken slowly, and now in what seemed like an afterthought, added, “It’s the men who ain’t.”

Now I knew what I was going to say.

“Well,” I began, “it will interest you to know that our women have changed–but definitely! The change, however, has been on the outside only. Inside, here,” pointing to the heart, “they are the same as they were twenty years ago. God-fearing, faithful, modest, and nice.”

The man was visibly moved. “I’m very happy, sir,” he said, in the manner of one who, having stakes on the land, had found no cause to regret one’s sentimental investment.

After this, everything that was said and done in that hall that night seemed like an anti-climax, and later, as we walked outside, he gave me his name and told me of his farm thirty miles east of the city.

We had stopped at the main entrance to the hotel lobby. We had not talked very much on the way. As a matter of fact, we were never alone. Kindly American friends talked to us, asked us questions, said goodnight. So now I asked him whether he cared to step into the lobby with me and talk.

“No, thank you,” he said, “you are tired. And I don’t want to stay out too late.”

“Yes, you live very far.”

“I got a car,” he said, “besides . . . “

Now he smiled, he truly smiled. All night I had been watching his face and I wondered when he was going to smile.

“Will you do me a favor, please,” he continued smiling almost sweetly. “I want you to have dinner with my family out in the country. I’d call for you tomorrow afternoon, then drive you back. Will that be alright?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’d love to meet your family.” I was leaving Kalamazoo for Muncie, Indiana, in two days. There was plenty of time.

“You will make my wife very happy,” he said.

“You flatter me.”

“Honest. She’ll be very happy. Ruth is a country girl and hasn’t met many Filipinos. I mean Filipinos younger than I, cleaner looking. We’re just poor farmer folk, you know, and we don’t get to town very often. Roger, that’s my boy, he goes to school in town. A bus takes him early in the morning and he’s back in the afternoon. He’s nice boy.”

“I bet he is,” I agreed. “I’ve seen the children of some of the boys by their American wives and the boys are tall, taller than their father, and very good looking.”

“Roger, he’d be tall. You’ll like him.”

Then he said goodbye and I waved to him as he disappeared in the darkness.

The next day he came, at about three in the afternoon. There was a mild, ineffectual sun shining, and it was not too cold. He was wearing an old brown tweed jacket and worsted trousers to match. His shoes were polished, and although the green of his tie seemed faded, a colored shirt hardly accentuated it. He looked younger than he appeared the night before now that he was clean shaven and seemed ready to go to a party. He was grinning as we met.

“Oh, Ruth can’t believe it,” he kept repeating as he led me to his car–a nondescript thing in faded black that had known better days and many hands. “I says to her, I’m bringing you a first class Filipino, and she says, aw, go away, quit kidding, there’s no such thing as first class Filipino. But Roger, that’s my boy, he believed me immediately. What’s he like, daddy, he asks. Oh, you will see, I says, he’s first class. Like you daddy? No, no, I laugh at him, your daddy ain’t first class. Aw, but you are, daddy, he says. So you can see what a nice boy he is, so innocent. Then Ruth starts griping about the house, but the house is a mess, she says. True it’s a mess, it’s always a mess, but you don’t mind, do you? We’re poor folks, you know.

The trip seemed interminable. We passed through narrow lanes and disappeared into thickets, and came out on barren land overgrown with weeds in places. All around were dead leaves and dry earth. In the distance were apple trees.

“Aren’t those apple trees?” I asked wanting to be sure.

“Yes, those are apple trees,” he replied. “Do you like apples? I got lots of ’em. I got an apple orchard, I’ll show you.”

All the beauty of the afternoon seemed in the distance, on the hills, in the dull soft sky.

“Those trees are beautiful on the hills,” I said.

“Autumn’s a lovely season. The trees are getting ready to die, and they show their colors, proud-like.”

“No such thing in our own country,” I said.

That remark seemed unkind, I realized later. It touched him off on a long deserted tangent, but ever there perhaps. How many times did lonely mind take unpleasant detours away from the familiar winding lanes towards home for fear of this, the remembered hurt, the long lost youth, the grim shadows of the years; how many times indeed, only the exile knows.

It was a rugged road we were traveling and the car made so much noise that I could not hear everything he said, but I understood him. He was telling his story for the first time in many years. He was remembering his own youth. He was thinking of home. In these odd moments there seemed no cause for fear no cause at all, no pain. That would come later. In the night perhaps. Or lonely on the farm under the apple trees.

In this old Visayan town, the streets are narrow and dirty and strewn with coral shells. You have been there? You could not have missed our house, it was the biggest in town, one of the oldest, ours was a big family. The house stood right on the edge of the street. A door opened heavily and you enter a dark hall leading to the stairs. There is the smell of chickens roosting on the low-topped walls, there is the familiar sound they make and you grope your way up a massive staircase, the bannisters smooth upon the trembling hand. Such nights, they are no better than the days, windows are closed against the sun; they close heavily.

Mother sits in her corner looking very white and sick. This was her world, her domain. In all these years, I cannot remember the sound of her voice. Father was different. He moved about. He shouted. He ranted. He lived in the past and talked of honor as though it were the only thing.

I was born in that house. I grew up there into a pampered brat. I was mean. One day I broke their hearts. I saw mother cry wordlessly as father heaped his curses upon me and drove me out of the house, the gate closing heavily after me. And my brothers and sisters took up my father’s hate for me and multiplied it numberless times in their own broken hearts. I was no good.

But sometimes, you know, I miss that house, the roosting chickens on the low-topped walls. I miss my brothers and sisters, Mother sitting in her chair, looking like a pale ghost in a corner of the room. I would remember the great live posts, massive tree trunks from the forests. Leafy plants grew on the sides, buds pointing downwards, wilted and died before they could become flowers. As they fell on the floor, father bent to pick them and throw them out into the coral streets. His hands were strong. I have kissed these hands . . . many times, many times.

Finally we rounded a deep curve and suddenly came upon a shanty, all but ready to crumble in a heap on the ground, its plastered walls were rotting away, the floor was hardly a foot from the ground. I thought of the cottages of the poor colored folk in the south, the hovels of the poor everywhere in the land. This one stood all by itself as though by common consent all the folk that used to live here had decided to say away, despising it, ashamed of it. Even the lovely season could not color it with beauty.

A dog barked loudly as we approached. A fat blonde woman stood at the door with a little boy by her side. Roger seemed newly scrubbed. He hardly took his eyes off me. Ruth had a clean apron around her shapeless waist. Now as she shook my hands in sincere delight I noticed shamefacedly (that I should notice) how rough her hands were, how coarse and red with labor, how ugly! She was no longer young and her smile was pathetic.

As we stepped inside and the door closed behind us, immediately I was aware of the familiar scent of apples. The room was bare except for a few ancient pieces of second-hand furniture. In the middle of the room stood a stove to keep the family warm in winter. The walls were bare. Over the dining table hung a lamp yet unlighted.

Ruth got busy with the drinks. She kept coming in and out of a rear room that must have been the kitchen and soon the table was heavy with food, fried chicken legs and rice, and green peas and corn on the ear. Even as we ate, Ruth kept standing, and going to the kitchen for more food. Roger ate like a little gentleman.

“Isn’t he nice looking?” his father asked.

“You are a handsome boy, Roger,” I said.

The boy smiled at me. You look like Daddy,” he said.

Afterwards I noticed an old picture leaning on the top of a dresser and stood to pick it up. It was yellow and soiled with many fingerings. The faded figure of a woman in Philippine dress could yet be distinguished although the face had become a blur.

“Your . . . ” I began.

“I don’t know who she is,” Fabia hastened to say. “I picked that picture many years ago in a room on La Salle street in Chicago. I have often wondered who she is.”

“The face wasn’t a blur in the beginning?”

“Oh, no. It was a young face and good.”

Ruth came with a plate full of apples.

“Ah,” I cried, picking out a ripe one. “I’ve been thinking where all the scent of apples came from. The room is full of it.”

“I’ll show you,” said Fabia.

He showed me a backroom, not very big. It was half-full of apples.

“Every day,” he explained, “I take some of them to town to sell to the groceries. Prices have been low. I’ve been losing on the trips.”

“These apples will spoil,” I said.

“We’ll feed them to the pigs.”

Then he showed me around the farm. It was twilight now and the apple trees stood bare against a glowing western sky. In apple blossom time it must be lovely here. But what about wintertime?

One day, according to Fabia, a few years ago, before Roger was born, he had an attack of acute appendicitis. It was deep winter. The snow lay heavy everywhere. Ruth was pregnant and none too well herself. At first she did not know what to do. She bundled him in warm clothing and put him on a cot near the stove. She shoveled the snow from their front door and practically carried the suffering man on her shoulders, dragging him through the newly made path towards the road where they waited for the U.S. Mail car to pass. Meanwhile snowflakes poured all over them and she kept rubbing the man’s arms and legs as she herself nearly froze to death.

“Go back to the house, Ruth!” her husband cried, “you’ll freeze to death.”

But she clung to him wordlessly. Even as she massaged his arms and legs, her tears rolled down her cheeks. “I won’t leave you,” she repeated.

Finally the U.S. Mail car arrived. The mailman, who knew them well, helped them board the car, and, without stopping on his usual route, took the sick man and his wife direct to the nearest hospital.

Ruth stayed in the hospital with Fabia. She slept in a corridor outside the patients’ ward and in the day time helped in scrubbing the floor and washing the dishes and cleaning the men’s things. They didn’t have enough money and Ruth was willing to work like a slave.

“Ruth’s a nice girl,” said Fabia, “like our own Filipino women.”

Before nightfall, he took me back to the hotel. Ruth and Roger stood at the door holding hands and smiling at me. From inside the room of the shanty, a low light flickered. I had a last glimpse of the apple trees in the orchard under the darkened sky as Fabia backed up the car. And soon we were on our way back to town. The dog had started barking. We could hear it for some time, until finally, we could not hear it anymore, and all was darkness around us, except where the headlamps revealed a stretch of road leading somewhere.

Fabia did not talk this time. I didn’t seem to have anything to say myself. But when finally we came to the hotel and I got down, Fabia said, “Well, I guess I won’t be seeing you again.”

It was dimly lighted in front of the hotel and I could hardly see Fabia’s face. Without getting off the car, he moved to where I had sat, and I saw him extend his hand. I gripped it.

“Tell Ruth and Roger,” I said, “I love them.”

He dropped my hand quickly. “They’ll be waiting for me now,” he said.

“Look,” I said, not knowing why I said it, “one of these days, very soon, I hope, I’ll be going home. I could go to your town.”

“No,” he said softly, sounding very much defeated but brave, “Thanks a lot. But, you see, nobody would remember me now.”

Then he started the car, and as it moved away, he waved his hand.

“Goodbye,” I said, waving back into the darkness. And suddenly the night was cold like winter straying early in these northern woodlands.

I hurried inside. There was a train the next morning that left for Muncie, Indiana, at a quarter after eight.

Bienvenido N. Santos (March 22, 1911 – January 7, 1996) was a Filipino-Americanfiction, poetry and nonfiction writer. He was born and raised in TondoManila. His family roots are originally from Lubao, PampangaPhilippines. He lived in the United States for many years where he is widely credited as a pioneering Asian-American writer.

serial post

She wrote occasionally at all poetry her poems were bizarre

And speak about old people should be happy on their ebbing days 

She loves them, wanted to give them the best

Her life were like normal women who woke up earlier walking with their dog and smiled cheerily

sometimes at the church or in the library 

But there is something eerie when she wore her all white robe 

holding a syringe badly shaking her head 

Today is your day Mister, mimicking

Any last word? no… please don’t

And her laughter awaken the long lost silent

fidgeting her ballpoint pen guiltless

Hello poetry, 

why I felt soooo blue today, she blurted

A registered nurse is charged with murdering eight elderly people in southwestern Ontario.

Elizabeth Tracey Mae Wettlaufer of Woodstock, 49, appeared in court on Tuesday to face eight charges of first-degree murder. 

* City news

The black cat, blue sea blogger award

Thanks to anna who has nominated me for wonderful Black Cat, Blue Sea Award. I really appreciate it. 

You can check her awesome blog at and her friendly atmosphere she share with her readers is something.

“This award is for bloggers who strive to write for everybody, and no matter how many viewers they get, make an impact on a reader. This award is an expression of gratitude to the nominee.”

~ Here is the rules as follows

Here was Anna’s question 
1. Where are you from?

I am from Philippines and work as a chef here at kingdom of Saudi Arabia for 3 years now.

I grow up in a house where ideology matters. My grandfather were silent sympathizers of fundamentalist Moro Liberation Front in Mindanao but things changed now when it became more extremist. Grandpa is long gone now, may his soul be rest in peace.

They said, that the island of Mindanao is a land of the unrested. 

War never end, and I witnessed it.

By different ideology and belief, clamour between the government and the Moro rebel still on the verge of committing crime against each other.

Imagine a bomb had exploded on your city as a child. Where all the members of your family and siblings will have to leave your house and sleep outside under the trees to avoid “juramentado”, a local term we call to a desperate rebel with a sword and hacks all the people he sees. It was unorthodox local suicide relatively to a jihad in the Middle East.

But we became accustomed to it and it seems it was part on our society. We undermine the treat for most of our relatives were Muslim and we are in harmony. 

Anyway, things on my place were small compared to what was happening around the world right now.

~ it’s Mamasapano’s; the fallen 44, a few hours drive from my city in attempt to capture Marwan, a feared terrorist been killed on the operation and still have no justice been serve to them.

Most of the Philippine archipelago is safe and we have a great leader whom they called the “Punisher”.

Soon our country will be free from corruption, prohibited drugs and criminality.

2. What is your hobbies ?
My hobbies are collecting and buying books at trade bookshop and put them sealed on a box waiting for my dream small library.
I read books since as a kid on which it grow deeper as I grow older. I love to be alone with nature, the blue sky, mountain, rivers, trees, ocean waves rolling down the shoreline and of course birds.

I also watched a lot of movies and claims that I watched Shawshank redemption almost a hundred times. I hated cooking but it’s a gift passed from the family and so I deal it for a living.

wait…this guy is not me but we have a lot in common.

3.What is your dream ? 

I dream to be a pastor or a teacher perhaps.

I dream to help the homeless in the street.

Seeing them suffers makes me cry like a child and I blamed, oh how much I blamed this sad dark world…

I dream to have a better source of living back in my country to stay with my kids as they grows up. 

 …okay, that’s my humble view on the question. 

It’s my pleasure to nominate a blogger. This blogger were people I read their stuff and had shared impact on me as a reader. People I want to meet if by chance. It’s okay if they don’t participate in the awards. My point is I’m recognizing their gift.

1. gringaofthebarrio
2. Leonard Durso

3. Shawn M. Young

4. L.T. Garvin Author

5. elisabeth Ann johnson- morphed

6. Ladyredot

7. Dice

My question:

1. When did you first feel, you want to write that you know and love?

2.  What books did your read and what kind of genres and of course whose the author?

3. How you can contribute a ripple of change at the present time you living towards your family, community and even for people who had read your writing, your books,or your blog post.

Thank you and have blessed day ahead 😀


maybe the world is too harsh
supposed, you have a bright future
a happy life
and you ended it up
because you felt, it wasn’t 
for you to fit in
and it is not the same anymore
in a busy road somewhere
where you had to look the sunrise
your smile became less
thinking, you have to go
as the world had seen it
and still they kept on looking away
smashing your guitar and the debris
went around
your hair on the floor 
while your tears had run down 
on your innocent face
and you decided, it’s time 
to eased the pain

 ~ it happened a year ago and still it haunts…


Amanda Hess

On May 27, he cut her hair to her shoulders, leaving just one long strand untouched. Then, he started filming. His camera panned from Izzy’s downcast face to the heap of glossy black strands at her feet. “The consequences of getting messed up. Man, you lost all that beautiful hair,” her father said. “Was it worth it?”

“No,” Izzy replied softly.

funeral by the roadside

circling their dead

cawing a mournful prayer sung 

from their ancient ancestry

twitching head sideway on the cloud

moving slow back to the dead

few begun a burial’s dance and their 

heads bowing in symmetrical sadness

some just observed at the treetops 

singing silent at the fallen comrade

probably the closest started pecking

the wing feathers

Accidentally dismembering both the 

eyes from the socket

before a passing car crashed it twice 

they flew at the treebranches

mimicking borrowed tongue from dog 

barks, coughing old lady, a walkie

talkie radio frank call to goosebump 

baby’s laughter with blank stare

Unborn Child (Love)

~ a father’s mourned

I asked myself

What if, you two didn’t left

You came out on this world

And I touch your cheek, 

then you snort while we giggle

In my gentle arm you were afraid to fall

We can walk in the park as if in our lifetime, do not care what time it was

The fireflies passes as we lay 

Smelling the grass under the stars

But life is unfair, sure it is

The early moon at the doorstep

I whispered, I know death better than life

There’s no doubt about it


I won’t be laughing the way I was
And smile sweet

As a sunflower envying the entire blue sky

At night. The wind bleakly blowing 

along the greedy fence

Light from the tower down the lonely mountain

Across the south goes on and off

On and off gloomily

Like it was a sad song from the oldies

Where you can see sole trucks 

Bumping on the gravel road

And the driver longing for bed.

Tears like leaves falls down in the pouring rain

At monsoon season were everything

Turn green and sadful, perhaps 

I’m the saddest person

In the world, I don’t pretend at all

As I closes my eyes

You two was there on my lap

Innocently caressing my chin

Feeling the deep breathing on my chest

With in the universe…

Herbert Siao

Kingdom of Saudi Arabia