Behold this box in which I carry my secrets.
If I ask you, would you be able to keep it?
Behold this case in which I kept my youth.
If I answer this poem, will it make the due?
Here lies all that there is or ever was...
If I would try to, could I make it last?
Here comes all that will come or will be...
If I fight for you, would I end up bruised?
Behold this ring which I’ll kiss with fists.
If I duel with time, could you give me a kiss?
Behold this arena in which I will be boxed.
I will brawl with pain, leave me knocked.

Sa gitna ng mga pangungusap at patinig,
sumisirit pa rin ang kislap, sumisitsit pa rin ang iyong tinig.
Sa harap ng mga katinig at mga salitang hiram,
mawala man ang tuldik, at impit, ika'y tutulo pa rin, tila ulan.
At sa likod nitong mga tula at awit ay ang tunay na ibig sabihin,
sana'y maunawaan mo pa rin ang sambit ng aking labi.
At sa ibabaw nitong mga salita, may hindi pa rin maisawika,
nawa'y maintindihan mo pa rin na ikaw ang sinisinta.
Ibabalik ko lahat sa'yo itong mga hiram na salita,
salin mula sa iyong lengguwahe, isasauli ng aking banyagang dila.
Pahintulutan **** ialay sa iyong may dagdag-bawas,
tila makabagong relihiyon, ngunit pangakong hindi ako mag-aaklas.

When she could bring the sun and fun
after surviving rains and pain,
that’s so tropical!
When she dances with the storms,
sings with the winds and their howls,
that’s so pacific!
When she steps out smelling like the ocean,
smiling, looking like the sunset,
she’s so tropical!
When she writes poetry out of tragedies,
takes lyrics and proses from calamities,
that’s so pacific!
When she smells like coconuts and mangoes
after cutting off people and letting them go,
oh, how tropical!
When she sways along with the palm trees,
instead of sulking down on her knees,
that’s so pacific!
The sun and storms,
the rains and fun,
the dances and the winds,
ah, how tropical!
The oceans, the calamities,
the tragedies, the poetry,
the coconuts, the people,
the mangoes, the palm tress,
so, so, tropical!

The northwestern wind writes, "what's taking you so long?"
My microwave hums, "at least you've got a business"
The pacific waves of Baler calls me, "come back"
My new parcel's sticker says "do not fold"

The sun dances in hiding
My days dwindling

The monsoon breeze makes noise, "it's never gonna happen"
My fridge buzzes anew, "whatever the **** that was"
The distant dream of Siargao, "I'm in timeout"
My pile of books jokes, "that was a dream."

The clouds sings in poems
My time is thinning

The rolling eastern storms teases, "can't you see it's killing me?"
My turntable curses itself nightly, "get a new job or else"
The sweet kisses of Urbiztondo, "well I'd rather not"
My shell earrings whispers, "but what if?"

The moon stays writing
My nights fading

I think, you have to be a **** *******.
**** the rules, of course. Forget the very word.
And run.
And ride.
And hide.
You have to avoid everyone and everything.
Avoid every unfamiliar feeling.
Avoid unfamiliar anything.
And run some more.
You have to curse better than a sailor can.
You have to stop thinking and dreaming about the sea.
You do not belong there, you are not feeling the ocean breeze.
And ride. Keep on riding.
Debunk every myth about you, with a worse news.
Dismiss every drunken enemy, with a bullet or a dime.
Defy the unknown and the unexplored by riding until you fly.
And ride some more.
And when it gets too good, be worse than ever.
And be the worst when you find the best.
And ride and hide and ride.
That's how to be the best cowboy there ever is.
And I am well on my way to be that.
I am well on my way to be just that!

So many plans, too little time.
So many faces, only one in my mind.
So many hands, is holding yours a crime?
So many places, but yours is the gold mine.
Too much things to do,
when should I schedule you?
Too many appointments made,
when are you asking me on a date?
So many dates in the calendar,
when’s the day you’ll be my groom?
So much to lose like racing cars,
tell me when exactly is the day of doom?
But I have so much love to give,
yet there's reality to live!
And we have a lot to grieve,
yet why do I still believe?
There used to be a brain where my head is,
now it can’t be saved by a broom.
"There was a sane and stable woman here,
if lost, find her in the emergency room."

Now here enters a woman who reads;
and voraciously, too.
In the coffee shop, in a wine bar,
in the meat shop, in a funeral.
Now here enters a woman who’s a poet;
she writes as one would deal drugs.
In the dark, in the down low,
in well-versed hush, in rehearsed rush.
Now here enters an angry woman;
“how feisty, I bet she’s a *****.”
Points fingers at men twice her size,
she punches mouths until they bleed out lies.
Now here enters a healthy woman;
healed as her anger is not suppressed,
she exercises, eats less than the rest,
hushes her mouth as the poison’s out.

Est-ce ce que font les vrais hommes?
Ils répondent et font preuve de clarté.
Est-ce ce que font les vrais amoreux?
Ils expriment et montrent leur vulnérabilité.
Je fredonne:
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que doit faire une vraie femme?
Que doit faire un vrai amoreux?
Mais quel choix ai-je?
Quel autre choix ai-je?
Est-ce que c'est ce que font les vrais hommes?
Il revient, clairement.
Est-ce ce que fait un vrai amant?
Il exprime son amour, avec vulnérabilité.
Maintenant, je sais quoi chanter;
Je prie pour savoir ce que je fais.

But what would you need from me?
Somebody who have heard every sound there is to hear,
What made you make the far journey over here?
You, who have walked cities I could only imagine now,
touched every sand, swam in every sea, basked in snow.
You, who have seen faces that I only see in paintings of oil,
laid your eyes on all shades of gold, coal, savored every soil.

But what could you want from me?
Somebody who seems to have everything,
what made you think I have something to offer a king?
You, who have riches that my people can't even dare to dream,
all the grains and flavors, of spices and silver, how they all gleam!
You, who have the finest of things, how life blessed you abundant,
all the valleys, jewels, oceans, rings, what more could you want?

But what else could I give you but ancient wisdom?
I am but an unnamed island, air kisses of breeze and palm trees.
I could not give you anything else but brand new calm and peace.
Poor little me, who only have plentitude of the sweetest of fruits,
the second best I could give you is my loyalty and truth.
Poor little me, I would only hurt and drown you with my tears,
they call me 'best' even from the west, but I only have seas of fears.

And what could an island be worth to a kingdom?
I am an uncouth, unknown maiden in front of imperial princesses.
I could not be your place of politics, you can't even build palaces.
Little old me, who only have endemic flowers of newer colors,
it is best to go your merry way, forget about my warm summers.
Little old me, I would only scare you with my quakes and storms,
don't write to me from home, simply leave me desolate and forlorn.

Maybe you will see through history.
You will find that this is how things used to be.
Maybe it's really supposed to be me, honestly.
Things only got in order, cleaned up the corners.
Maybe this is for the best, and it shall be, no wonder.
The streets that you thought you knew is not all that is.
Maybe it's not me and you, but could I still give you a kiss?
The city doesn't intend to take more, but to give, please believe.
Our city sheds tears daily for weeks.

Maybe you will get enough of reality.
You will see that there is paradise in the urbanity.
Maybe we were meant to be apart so we could listen to our hearts.
Things would only get messier, but I will be crazier.
Maybe I got the right tools to help you feel better.
The city is not after you, it won't drown or drain you out.
Maybe my letters are futile, you are who the scripture is about.
The city is for ours to reign in, or you could come when it's raining.
Our city bleeds weekly for months.

Maybe you will read through my poetry.
You will get in between my metaphors and subtleties.
Maybe you're supposed to show me how to write.
Things would be better if certain things didn't happen.
Maybe it's all part of a bigger plan, who's holding the pen?
The city that my children will be running in is one we can't hate.
Maybe there's reason and logic for everything, even when it's late.
The city will be the witness, in my arms is where it's warmest.
Our city will no longer cry and bleed for years.

And God forbid I get asked again,
"And what do you bring to the table?"
This time, my answer would be; "nothing!"
I have no worth without doing anyone favors,
I have no price without a pretty face,
I have no tags without brains,
I have no name without money,
I have no face without ***,
I have no place without favors.
I have no fame without sacrifices.
So leave me alone!
I don't even wish to sit at your table.
I don't even let myself dream about it.
Don't ask me no questions!
I don't even want to be in your vicinity.
I don't even want you back in my city.

Ah yes, I stopped asking and annoying the sun;
"what are his summer plans?"
Rains just started rolling, city thunders are singing;
"what about his homecoming?"
I can't even ask about his day
without subtly saying;
"are you almost on your way?!?"
so much for silent praying.
Ah but I don't care now what he does or where he goes,
the clouds are grey and cold, so is my little nose.
Storms are humming, pacific sun is in hiding, but teasing;
"okay, but I am not the one hiding something..."

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I thank
that in a world so vast,
at how wide time stretch,
you and I still met?

I do believe in God,
who else could orchestrate
such a boundless union as ours?

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I pray to
for your safety and peace,
knowing that's not something
I could offer you and give?

I do believe in God,
who else could write and design
such a flawless experiment as you and I?

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I give credits to
for moving seas and history
and my stubborn mind,
thinking the impossible like you'd be mine?

I do believe in God,
who else could make someone like you for me,
and our islands that we will swim and live in?

If there is beauty in death,
there are hundred deaths in beauty.
If there is winning in suffering,
there are thousands of suffering to win.
Where is the red carpet to the exit door?
Is the way out the end all and be all?
Where is the limousine to forevermore?
Is winning truly at our beck and call?
Teach me how to say a graceful goodbye.
How do I make you read one more line?
Tell me a way to a more flawless farewell.
How do I make you come out of hell?
There is death in beauty,
suffering in winning,
winning over death,
death of suffering.

My heart is a walled city,
an inner city with fortresses so high.
On all corners, cannons await enemies.
I protect my heart fiercely for I know
how fierce my heart and love can be.
My heart is an inner city,
protected by centuries behind me.
On all eight gates, soldiers are guarding closely.
I have walls so mighty and high for I have
been dragged bloodily through these streets.
My heart is within a walled, inner city,
yet somehow you have authority,
you have some special key.
I am a newer, poorer, younger city,
some jewel or pearl of the east,
tell me, are you my king?

I've no need for sleep, until all the stars above our seas are free.
I've no desire to wake and rise, until the sun sets in our fields of rice.
I've no time to shed tears, until every drop of my ocean is allowed again to be salty.
I've nothing to lose, until I lose my motherland to the hands of another enemy.
I feel no hunger, until every farmer's family have something to eat.
I feel no thirst, until every fisherman's friends can sail and live.
I've no mind for pain and logic, until every politician's ideals are not from their ****.
I've no heart for heartbreak, until each of my countrymen's heartache has been healed.

If you could make me kneel
then I could make you believe
If you could *******
I could make you meet God.
Whatever you do to me,
I will do it back divinely.
If you treat me like an angel
then I could bring you heaven.
If you still couldn’t tell,
I could also give you the hell.
Everything you give me,
I will give you more generously.
If you could forget the world,
then I could grant forgiveness.
If you could forsake all riches,
I could welcome you to my kingdom.
Anything you offer me,
I will bless back with moon and stars.
If I could make you come
then I could make you believe.
If you could make me meet God,
then at your altar I could pray and kneel.

Kada sinusubukan kong sumulat sa wika ng aking ina,
nariyan pa rin ang sa ama, tila nagbabantay,
tila ingay na pumupuslit sa gabing malumanay.
Tila ito konsensiyang kakatok sa aking pinto,
sa gitna ng mahimbing na tulog mga alas tres pasado.

Ang pangalan ng mga kalye sa aking siyudad,
ang pangalan ng mga kalsada sa pamayanan,
ano ang sa wika ko, alin ang sa'yo, at sa dayo?

Kada sinusubukan kong umawit sa Tagalog,
bubulong ang mga rondalla, gitara't iba pang instrumento:
"anong wika ng pangalan naming ito?"
Kaunti na lang ay tutula na rin ang aking kama:
"hindi ba't oras na para sa banyo?"

Ang pangalan ng mga bayani sa labanan,
ang pangalan ng mga ninuno ng angkan,
alin dito ang salin, ano ang sa Tagalog?

But they would burn my mouth
before you could even kiss it.
Don’t you think it’s a blessing we’re alive now,
and at the same time, too? Say it.
But they would bury me alive
before I could make you believe.
Don’t you think it’s a curse that we’re aligned,
yet so far away at the same time? **** it.
But they would blast off my body
before you could even bless it.
They would brand my poetry as blasphemy
before I could read them to you under the exploding stars.
They would call me the devil and the witch
before I could even become your eternal love or divine scar.

You bring so much to the table
and mine's only good for two,
it's so tiny, that sometimes
I eat while standing, too.

Now I'm not really nice,
but with you I am just naturally submissive.
And you're holding the dice,
we're not playing games, but the rules are subjective.

You bring so much to the table
and I only brought a picnic mat,
it's a shame, what could I offer
if I'm just eating scraps, like a cat?

And I want to be your only or favorite vice,
I am ten toes down, I can't change my objective.
Or maybe I just want to be your constant, like rice.
I am a case and crime, come inspect me like a detective.

You bring so much to the table
and I do too, but are you even ready for our feast?
Would you come to the kitchen with me,
I am here waiting for you, won't you come to the east?