What cruel irony do Circumstances play,
On land and people, before Thanksgiving Day?
When men claiming Honor can feast sans shame
Having sold the Nation’s Soul, like it was just a game.
I grit my teeth at the undeserved defeat,
Compelled to take the hurt and strain in pain.
In shame the head perched flaccid and downbeat,
Because I cannot dare to express disdain.
Looking to other shores where Pilgrims landed,
Envying enlightened folks engulfed in pride redeemed.
How lucky for America to have Barrack Obama.
While we, still the Indio –
…can only have Arroyo!
There’s that familiar song on the radio
With lines that used to make us merry
Along the tune that I could carry
Lovingly, come every February.
And now, will heaven let it be,
That you may listen to this plea?
With melody, my heart aching to say
Words you want to hear every February.
The lines are now a prayer
The song, a hymn
The flowers’ petals browning
The candle still burning
Though in anguish, the mind persists
Preserving what the heart resists.
To step forward with much to bear
Because it is February, my dear.