by Stephen Cenon D. Talla
If only I could write. If only i could string verses that soar up high, to a place where you once were. Up there where the gods and your muses meet. Up when you grace them with verses, that bend time and twist truth.
Up where monuments are insignificant and peer words meant nothing. Up there where you climb the bell tower, and no one really knew. No one, not even you, know really why. Up there when you fly a kite that will never fly. A kite of cloth like a sieve, wind will pass through by. Up there when you play a game outside with the children. Games of childhood and childlike.
No one understood you.
And yet you never wanted to understand them.
Up there when you did not speak a word to anyone. No one will understand you anyway. Up there where the cloud and the spirit meets. Where the lightning and the thunder leave home and yet arrive with one of the two, late.
Up there when you speak and write in a foreign and borrowed language. You wrote a wide spectrum of feelings and unexpected rings of rhymes. Up there when you achieved so much and yet they know so little of you. Up when you reach out to them, to those who will appreciate your verses. And perhaps will sing your praises.
Up there when taking a bath is optional and dressing up to the occasion is not mandatory.
They would laugh at you.
And you care not.
Up there when you became a town leader and not a politician. When a public servant is a public servant. Up there when you experimented with the mighty lines of Marlowe; your last effort, your third wind.
I wish I have been up there. We could have been friends and talked about what you have felt. I could have asked what was the meaning of it all. I could have sing your praises.
I wish I could write. If only I could write.
