What I fear is this:

When we lose our insanity;

And when we refuse to bite;

The cakeness of, and — in life;

When we halt from bathing,

In the wind and smelling

The grand dances of the leaves;

When we stay put in bed

And not color our diaries

With seeing people’s miseries

And asking them what happened,

How do you think can we help?

When our oxygen circulates,

Inside our smelly rooms

And not busy pavements,

Or quiet museums;

When our pens lose sharpness,

And our hearts turn into a piece

Of Oblation in every UP campus;

When we stop dancing

Below the skies

Heralding a storm;

When our shoes are clean,

And our clothes are not soaked

With sweat.

And what I fear most:

When poetries turned dead,

And I found myself cleaning a knife.

February 17, 2012, there is poetry in this growing Kitma room.