No, Allos, Your Words are not Dry as the Grass is

Here, here the tomb of Bulosan is,
Here, here are his words, dry as the grass is.
-	Carlos Bulosan, “Epitaph”

Because dry grass easily blazes
	to a light kiss of fire,
and its ember quickly turns to ash,

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; they are the lullaby
of  the rivers and rice fields of Mangusmana
that cuddles  the joy of your innocence –
a memory that parries the assault of winter.

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; they are the laughter
of the hills and plains of America,
green splendor that caresses your back
when fatigue and sadness assail
the plantations of apple, peas, and asparagus.

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; they are the elegy
of our anguish and rage, a peal of poem
amidst hunger and terror, a cataract
of blood flowing through our hope and dream.

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; for

when did the poem and heart
of  the people’s poet ever run dry? when
did the desire and hope for the birthing
of a new world ever run dry? 

because cataclysm is not its name

deluge has brought this mass of mud
and let the sea of our grief surge
but cataclysm is not its name;
gaze at it, scrutinize its face
and trace the fount of our tears:

houses resembling broken ribs,
crumbled walls and tangled trees,
clothes and toys strewn far and wide,
stoves, tv sets, cars in mire buried deep;
cataclysm is not its name.

without warning, it came gushing,
everything it touched, it crushed; nothing
was spared, all over spreading torrents of fear.
gaze at it, scrutinize its face
and trace the fount of our tears.

listen to the lamentation, look at the corpses;
cataclysm is not its name.
let us call it tiny plastic wrap
or an empty can we threw at the ditch;
cataclysm is not its name.

let us call it malls and subdivisions eating
the land where rivers should freely flow,
let us call it wastes spewed out
by local and foreign industrial plants;
cataclysm is not its name.

let us call it forests denuded
by loggers in the congress, in the senate,
let us call it mountains blasted
by mining firms sanctified by laws;
cataclysm is not its name.

gaze at it, scrutinize its face
and trace the fount of our tears.
it is the public coffer plundered
by politicians crook and corrupt;

let us then call it insatiable greed,
let us then call it unpardonable neglect;
because cataclysm is not its name.