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Quezon City, Philippines

PRO

I am not one of those who left the land to the mercy of its enemies. Their flattery leaves me cold, My songs are not for them to praise. But I pity the exile's lot. Like a felon, like a man half dead, dark is your path, wanderer; wormwood infects your foreign bread. But here in the murk of conflagration when scarcely a friend is left to know, we, the survivors, do not flinch from anything, not from a single blow. Surely, the reckoning will be made after the passing of this cloud. We are the people without tears, straighter than you, more proud. No foreign sky protected me. No stranger's wing shielded my face. I stand as witness to the common lot, Surv