translated by Eric Abalajon
BANGUNGOT
Palagi akong namamatay nang maaga
sa mga dati kong buhay. Mula sa digmaang
walang katapusan—na ako’y muling sinisingil.
Kinukwenta ang mga kilometrong nilakad
bilang binatang manlalakbay sa anino ng Arayat.
Sinusukat ang mga minutong nanatiling tahimik,
bitbit ang umiiyak na sanggol na nakakabit pa
sa aking pusod, sa gitna ng pamomomba sa isang
bayan sa Panay. Tinitiis ang mga pasa’t pasong balat
na dumidikit sa sahig ng malamig na warehouse para
lamang makita muli ang aking nag-aalalang inay. Dinukot,
nahuli, nawawala ng 50 taon. Mula sa ama, sa anak,
at sa hindi nagpapalit na mukha ng diktadurya.
Palaging hindi nakapagpaalam nang maayos kahit kanino—
lalo na sa’yo. Pero sa kinaumagahan nitong aking bago
at murang buhay, sa kalagitnaan ng rally sa Mendiola,
sa init na nanatili sa aking katawan, kasama ang mga
manggagawa’t magsasaka, ako’y muling gigising—
pigtang-pigta sa pawis mula sa mga bangungot ng nakaraan.
Mula rito, malutong na liliyab ang aking takot at kaba sa oras
na ipakain ko ito sa apoy mula sa kanayunan. Aaralin ko muli
ang lipunan sa aking mga bagong mata at pupukawin
ang umiidlip na isipan. Tuntunin ang pugad natin
sa gubat—ang ating pagkikilos. Hahalikan
ang pinakabunganga ng batis. Titikman ang matamis
na lasa ng mga maliliit na tagumpay. Malinaw rito,
sa likod ng kasukalan, ang mga yapak ng aking
nakaraang diwa—ang pagkadalubhasa sa agos ng panahon
at buhay. Lalakbay ako na armado lamang ng mga titik
at salita hanggang ang mga mabubuo nitong kahulugan
ay magiging sa iyo.
NIGHTMARE
I have often died early deaths
in my previous lives. From the endless
war—that is again demanding for me.
Counting the total kilometers walked
as a young traveler in the shadow of Arayat.
Measuring the remaining minutes of silence,
cradling the crying infant that is still attached
to my navel, in the middle of indiscriminate bombing
of a village in Panay. Putting up with the bruises and burnt skin
that sticks on the floor of a cold warehouse in order
to see again my worried mother. Abducted,
arrested, missing for fifty years. From the father, to the son,
and the unchanging face of the dictatorship.
I often fail to say goodbye properly to anyone—
especially to you. However in the morning of this new
and young life, in the middle of a protest march in Mendiola,
with the heat remaining in my body, together with
workers and peasants, I awaken again—
covered in sweat from the nightmares of the past.
From here, my fear and worry will burn greatly the moment
I feed them to the fire from the countryside. I study again
society with my new eyes and wake up my
slumbering mind. I will track down our camp
in the forest—our collective movements. I will kiss
the mouth of the stream. I will try the sweet
taste of small victories. It is clear here,
behind the foliage, the embraces of my
previous soul—the mastery of currents of the past
and of life. I will travel armed only with letters
and words until the meanings they create
will be yours.
—————
Jaku Mata is a cultural worker that resides in Dumaguete and Iloilo. He is the author of the chapbook Lugar Lang (Lomboy Press, 2023)
Eric Abalajon’s translations have appeared in Asymptote, Modern Poetry in Translation, Four Way Review, Exchanges: Journal of Literary Translation, and Tripwire: a journal of poetics. His debut poetry collection is forthcoming from FlowerSong Press. He lives near Iloilo City.