by Luis G. Dato
They tell you, dear, you are not meant for me,
That in the grand division which the fates
Have all apportioned earthly loves and hates,
We have drawn blanks — no dawn, no memory
For us. I ask: Is then the soul not free,
Man impotent and blind his lot awaits,
Beholds beyond the view of Heaven’s gates,
His bondage ordered by blind destiny?
It can’t be so, we choose ourselves the way,
Our dreams we dream, our schemes we mar or make
To turn today into a brighter day,
We suffer, strive, the consequences take,
And it is bleak December, Maytime gay,
As we our heart restrict or bid it wake.
