Dawn in the Heart of La Tierra Pobreza
{My English version of my MADALING-ARAW SA PUSO NG LA TIERRA POBREZA — my apologies for the influence of a few lines of a poem about Africa by Patrice Emery Lumumba, the first President of the Democratic Republic of Congo who was murdered by his political opponents on the alleged prodding of the CIA of America)
for a few years more than three centuries
you, indio, of my la tierra pobreza
suffered like a brute
pulverized and turned to ashes were your bones
scattered by the harsh wind
on grieving hills and ricefields
by the white lords of tyranny and grief.
your masters erected glittering temples
to protect your soul
to maintain your sufferings.
their right was to whip and torture you
your right was to weep and die.
they implanted and sculpted on your body
endless hunger, endless chains
death was like a large crawling snake
from the shrubbery forest
ready to treacherously bite you.
they laid on your neck poverty’s iron ball
they ravished your wife
the sparkling pearl of your home.
they raped your land and gold.
resounding like the sounds of drums
in the pitch-dark nights
the wailing of disgraced souls.
hustling like the rapids
the flow of tears and blood
of victims of injustices.
yes, from a foreign land
they travelled and docked
on the seashore of your motherland.
their cross and swords pierced your mind
to rapaciously rule your beloved land.
in every large tracts of land they grabbed
they made your sons their beasts of burden.
in their factories of greed
your sons’ arms were their screws and hammers
while preaching god is merciful to his brethren
but you are always grieving, indio
till your blood boiled
till your heart revolted
and you strewn to the wind
the melody of grief and pain
and kindled the fire of revolution
and slashed the necks of your oppressors.
but hence came new demigods
who again enslaved you
and still continuously enslaving you
in cahoots with your plunderers fellow indios!
yes, indio, of my la tierra pobreza
you were slaves for centuries
and still are slaves today
of the lords of sorrow and exploitation
but in the blazing fire
ignited by shadows now mere heap of skeletons
your valiant sons and daughters
will continuously dance
will always be vigilant
in the darkness of night
on mountains and fields of grief
and they will pour their blood
on now yellowish grass of hope
for the freedom and glory
of your beloved la tierra pobreza
you so fervently desire.
stare at the breaking of dawn
smell the scent of joy
the tender wind will wipe-out from your face
the tears of grief of our race
when, alas, at last
the talahib is on fire
blazing with embers full
on mournful hills and savannahs…
rejoice, indio
gloriously dance
dawn will inevitably turn-up
in the heart of our la tierra pobreza!
