By Luis G. Dato
The wind blows bitter in the cold
It bludgeons, triturates
The palms, banana trees, and all
And wildly each whipped bough gyrates.
O mercilessly the storm blows
By reeling stalk and swaying palm,
A whitened pallor sheets the fields
Blighting the barrio’s erstwhile calm.
O God, the night was dark and long,
A long, dark waiting for the day,
And not the sun, but gusts they are
Flailing the world in disarray.
When will it stop, O will the wind
Ever unclasp its icy hold?
Return, O sun, sun be gone, chill wind,
Your breath is mercilessly cold.
When will the girls in slacks go out
In flooded fields and streets to wade?
And warm the birds was with we wings,
And leaves turned yellow ere they fade.
And now, above the roar we hear,
The crash of houses falling down,
And then a ghost-like quietness
Not hubhub of a milling town.
And thrashing vainly in the water,
The changeless circles are black specks
The carabaos have taken fright
As water rises up their necks.
The palms, like parasols blown up,
To infuriated gales kowtow,
The boughs flail endlessly about,
Around swing now high in air, now low.
