Growing Old

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Before, when the scorpion
in my blood still

ached to sting, the rain of your hair
on my cheek, or the mere flicking

of your hip, or even just the tiny
triangle carved on your breast could

grub thirst in my throat; and, oh, how
many times did we paint Malacañang

wall red? Now that the scorpion
in my blood has already lain

limp, I just want to sit and listen
to your voice, I’m contented taking

a sip of nectar from your meta-
phors of love and revolution.

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