i. 
In the humid breath of Abuyog, 
a forest once whispered: 
its canopy a green hymn 
now a fading echo— 
139 hectares lost 
a symphony of silence, 

16% of a verdant heart 
beating in the shadows of flames. 

Fires flicker 
ten ha in a year, 
a ghostly dance. 

13% of a year’s lament, 
embers rise like memories—, 
517 kilotons of sorrow, 
CO₂e, a heavy shroud 
smothering the earth’s soft sighs. 

What remains? 

A net change of -288, 
a canvas of absence 
1.5% of hope, 
26 hectares gained, 
but the scales tip, 

                        the balance of life—, 
a precarious thread, 
woven into the fabric of ash. 

Alerts ring out! 
deforestation’s siren song 
12 whispers in a week: 
less than a ha, 
yet the weight of loss, 
is a mountain—, 
a burden borne by roots, 
that clutch at the dying soil. 

And still, the fire calls 
VIIRS alerts flicker: 
six flames in three years, 
                        the landscape of canvas 
painted in charred strokes 

a reminder of what was, 
and what could never be 
the haunting of a forest 

that once danced with the rain. 

Oh, Abuyog! 

Your trees 
                        the sentinels of memory, 
stand witness to the blaze; 
to the slow unraveling 
the poetry of your loss 
etched in the scars of the earth. 

A testament to the fire: 
that consumes yet creates 
a cycle unbroken, 
in the ashes 

                        we find our voice. 

________ 
13 August 2024, Sogod Bay, Southern Leyte, Philippines 



ii. 

A flutter— 
golden garb 
of buzzing souls, 

dancing through the vibrant streets 
where Opayda whispers—, 
healing stings with gentle grace. 

Ode to the Buyog, 
nature’s tiny Buccaneers 
crafting sweetness from the blooms. 

Their labor— 
a hymn of nectar, 
a symphony of flight, 
in the heart of Leyte’s pulse. 

Fertility in color, 
courage stitched in fabric bright 
each thread a story— 

each bead a memory: 
of resilience, 
of unity, 
in the hive of humanity. 

Oh, for a bee’s delight, 
to sip the clover's warmth 
to revel in the sunlit noon. 

While the world spins— 
a tapestry of life, 
woven with the hum of wings. 

And as the festival swells: 
with laughter, song, and dance, 

the bees, they gather— 
not just for honey, 
but for the freedom found 
in the sweetness of the moment, 
in the embrace of communal living.
 
________ 
14 August 2024, Bontoc, Southern Leyte, Philippines 



iii. 
The journey 
swift as thought, 
from Southern Leyte’s embrace 
to Tacloban, where Yolanda's rage 
etched scars into the eyelid’s earth. 

Once a garden 
now a requiem, 
a symphony of silence: 
the echoes of dreams, 
shattered like glass beneath our feet. 

On the road to Palo, 
memories weave through the asphalt— 
a tapestry of solitude. 

Centuries of whispers; 
the relentless tide of sorrow 
crashing against the shores of time, 
where the winds carry the weight 
of those who linger, 
their shadows etched in the dusk. 

Names, once vibrant, now mere murmurs. 

Yielding to death’s cold embrace 
their stories, entwined like vines 
a testament to absence, 

a field guide to grief 
            the heart’s heavy ledger, 
                        where loss is the ink, 
and time, the unyielding page. 

In this desolate expanse: 
the clock stands still 
years compress into moments 
days stretch like shadows. 

Faces from the past flicker, 
their voices, a haunting lullaby, 
whispering through the silence, 

echoes of what was, 
and what can never be. 

Life’s ascent, once a promise 
now flattens into a void, 
a precipice without descent 

                        the air thick with the weight 
of those who cheer from beyond 
their joy obscured, 
lost in the task of remembrance. 

We were flesh, now vapor, 
substance dissolving into mist 

                        the child within us wails 
clutching at the remnants of joy, 
yet in this farewell, 

                        a vast horizon opens: 
the dawn of something new, 
where death reigns, 
the sun dips low behind the mountains, 
the stars emerge, 
the moon, a witness to our passage. 

Here, in the kingdom of the lost 
we find exalted solitude, 
the path laid bare 
                        the vegetation parts 
revealing the old bay, 
the dark night of the soul, 
where we confront the blankness— 

the stepchild of the sublime, 
our subject, our medium. 

As the mist dissipates, 
the canvases turn inward, 
life’s little cat lies still, 

and we ponder: 

“Shall I rise from the ashes?” 

The sun whispers, “Yes,” 

but the Red Sea sighs: 

“Your voice is 

                        but sand, 

scattered 

                        in the wind.” 

________ 
14 August 2024, Daniel Z. Romualdez Airport, Tacloban Leyte, Philippines