If you want to know what we are, after Bulosan, after Lacaba, and after the arrest of the Tiamzons
There is the haunting feeling to surface our identity There is more to our anonymity than a few surfaced names. Always asking who but not to whom the heart beats for There is no language more classist than the heart’s. We bloom from the bud of history fertile of the predecessor. We have witnessed the struggle not in the faces of the captured But hear them through the silent tremor of the continuing march. We are the generation millennial and young Ready for the onslaught, the replacement We are the counterpart. Deathless, we grow from what was left. We soar to classlessness And the incarceration of the body Can never stop the flight of the soul. We are caged weathers, the climate Of no geography. And every raised fist Strikes thunder shedding the fear of light Into the cowardice and comfort of darkness We are the numerous faces of the faceless From our sea spring clarity Deaths are numerable like sand but the tides that nestle them Are swarms countless that come Into the beckoning shore. Pristine and alive, Cleansed and renewed. We are harboring change. There is an incessant silent pulse of patience felt in the shackled Hands permeating through shackled media clownery. And revenge is the faceless noise From every tortured cell Digging, scraping, calling Everywhere the clamor escapes the silence. If you want to know what we are We are the pulse of the street Marching on to the drums of the mountains. We are the dream that resurrects men. We are the revolution!
