By Luis G. Dato
Mt. Isarog’s a cold, white sheet,
It stands unseen with icy feet,
Mt. Isarog’s a somber gray,
Harbinger of the rainy day.
The dark hills hide, pale clouds hang low,
The crickets sing, the sad cocks crow,
December wraps the chilly ground
With dew and muffles every sound.
Mt. Isarog’s a forest pyre
And orange skies pull the dawn higher,
Mt. Isarog, deep blue and near
Is herald of the bright day clear.
Mt. Isarog’s a huge, white rose
As clouds explode inaudibly,
And still in quiet brooding, shows
Her form of wondrous majesty.
The dawn, dear heart, is not far-off,
Soon brooks will murmur,winds will laugh,
With wild bird-song and bloom of flowers
Mt. Isarog brings happy hours.
The sun at dawn spreads out a feast
Of pink and orange in the east,
Mt. Isarog is a hut on fire
To wake the world to new desire.
