A serenade in the midst of war
sung softly 'neath the reassurance of stars
hidden inside a backpack of glances
amidst chants and talks of change,
a pledge that is as long and as deep
and as fragile as a softly indrawn breath,
a plucked sampaguita left atop
a magazine pouch, perfuming the bullets.
What was it they said to us?
True love does not exist outside,
governed by class, creed and prejudice.
His eyes were lakewater clear,
his heart was a song of drums and kulintang,
he doesn't know how to string letters
to write me a poem
or a song.
Perhaps its true what they said
when I left I have never felt again
that pure gentle ache.
True love does not exist here---
it swims forever in your lakewater
clear eyes, there like a rose
in the midst of war.
