To Whom Shall I Murmur?
(Poem)
to whom shall i murmur
vituperation of a fuming brain
and agony of a bleeding heart?
to whom shall i murmur
the suffering and distress
of bodies entombed by darkness
on pavements of criss-crossing city streets?
to whom shall i murmur
anguish of twisted intestines
misery of teary eyes always gawking
on the void horizon of discontent?
to whom shall i murmur
the creaking of bones of scrawny arms
of kneeling farmers in canefields
and ricefields not theirs?
to whom shall i murmur
the sorrow of tiny fingers
scavenging in trash bins
to fill-up a growling belly?
can the god of abraham hear
and discern all these?
can the unscrupulous ruling class
lend their ears
to hear the agonies of tormented souls?
to whom shall i really murmur
the miseries of an exploited race?
lurking in my consciousness
and marching in my brain
are revolting scenes of abuses and greed
of the oppressors of the poor.
yes, to whom shall i murmur everything?
shall i whisper everything
to the intertwining cadena de amor vines
on a long forgotten, desolate grave?
or to the rampaging violent wind
on shrubby forests and hills?
or to the flowing rivers
on the mountain’s breast?
or to the dewy grass on a woodland’s heart?
or to the rampaging waves
on praying seashores?
or to the hissing lightning
on the gloomy horizon?
to whom shall i murmur everything?
to the wheezing bullets and exploding bombs
so the exploitative ruling class
can fully feel and understand
the litanies of grief and pain
of the downtrodden-oppressed class?
to whom shall i murmur
the lamentations of those being raped by greed
of conscienceless rulers and oligarchs
with no compassion at all
for the wretched of this parched land
and for a nation
they’re plundering forevermore
and long devoid of glory and blissfulness?
for sure, my murmurs can only be heard
by those who “dwell in the lower depths”
as our veins are conjoined
with blood simmering, struggling
and always unceasing in rekindling
the flames of millions of torches
to be free, at last, from bondage and penury.
yes, we, slaves of misery and grief
our sufferings can only be heard
felt and understood
by only miserable fellows like us…
we. the stigmatized wretched
of this barren earth!
