Here, in this sitio by the highway,
the hours pass by without a murmur
They are tired hours
and very, very lonely
They know they will never meet another
even after they die
So they go by, each in their own style
They go by and die
In the morning, they pass quickly
and run to their deaths,
terrified of the day's beginning,
wanting only the end
They race like frantic jeepneys
rushing head on
into the dead-end of traffic
At noon, they trudge along
as if as old as the sun
or the ghostly moon against the blue,
inching across the pavement,
failing to evade their own shadows
wishing to wash out, fade into white
retire in a brighter light
At night, they are soldiers
- unarmed, resolute, courageous-
marching toward an ambush
One by one, they fall against the deep black
The night is a merciless foe.
These hours die swiftly,
one after the other
bleeding only after the end
But at dawn, an hour lives
One hour gets lucky
It lives out its time
It begins cold and dark
like everything else,
and crawls the ground like a baby
touching leaf and stone and doors,
windows- even faces- and everything
is new, is a wonder, is beautiful
As it goes, it grows, and it glows
Roosters herald its arrival
sparrows chatter, excited, ecstatic
Soon it matures into a prime specimen of time
The air stands still, captivated
Leaves flush into a luscious green, infatuated
It casts a soft light
radiates a delicate warmth, divine
Like a lover, reborn, resurrected, returned,
it kisses the earth gently as if to say,
"i am here now, everything will be okay"
But as with all hours,
it quickly ages, it gets old
thinning into a bright white
Its warmth begins to bite
It starts to reek of a quiet panic
And as it clings to its final seconds
the alarm clock rings,
a speeding truck roars by,
and the neighbors switch on the radio
playing a dated hit too shrill
to sing along to.
