For E.K.C., B., and others
A beautiful flower
With petals are bright, bloody-red
It blooms without interruption
Even amidst of a violent storm.
When a lightning strikes,
And burns the tree nearby,
The beautiful flower seems to laugh,
and moan, and sigh.
Under the warmth of the sun
This flower shows her striking, noticeable beauty
And she lets her fragrance embrace
The hotness of air.
Along the flowerbeds
It seems to healthily grow
Among the Hagonoy weeds
And the Chinese creepers —
Not disturbed by their presence.
A beautiful blossom it maybe
It remained untouched
By butterflies and bees,
Even the ladybugs and other beetles.
It has become a riddle to me
Until one day, I’ve seen it in my eyes—
Whenever a lonely insect sips
The nectar from her flower, he eventually dies.
What is this flower, you may ask?
It is the heart of a woman
Bruised, scraped and hurt so many times
That from it oozes a poison—
A poison called the dying love…
Antipolo City, 9 August 2010