Tangled electric cables are always part of the sky?s scenes.
The day looks owned by many and conquered by some, maya claws holding onto
thin lines. Whether the clouds finally share its load to the ground
or the sun thinks it is the only star, everyone is always under the weather.
You remember one rainy Talamban morning and feathers clinging
on wings made for false progress and resilience, silent flight above heights.
You remember that late afternoon you called your apartment home
because the loved closed its door for you. With tree-barren mountains and more
construction here and there, you ask if you are building a life. No cloud is drying,
no soil is not harsh. Living means remembering breathing spaces
in which no one but you crashes to make a point.
Then the city presents itself on a star-filled night
devoid of the color black yet not of the dark
unfolding its never-enough narrow roads
with your story to tell, unsettled dust just around
and the dead-end street?happiness.