By Fem Manzan, Allena de Castro, and Jasmine Osorio |
Illustration by Shazmeen Claro
Blind dusk to the dawn of tomorrow, must we shed our tears for a cent of sorrow?
Weeping willow, breathe your vigilance; where is the mother that birthed your vigilance?
"On the other side, opposing the sinner."
She is weaving the bahag, dancing with the bloody masquerade, waving her fist as the flag of the masses.
It is beauty that knows no bounds but has been cast away by ‘his’ stories for centuries. Until now, she has been driven by the yearning for equality.
How can you not see the revolutionary era? As the purple streaked the blue skies, “Women!” they called, flaunting the representation of new beginnings.
Thus, the world shall listen to her story. It is time for change–an era of liberation. She must be freed from the shackles of men’s cruelty, his stories—her fight for manumission, her rights of independence. The world must hear her voice—the new generation—of how their mother achieved solace.
Withering in the graves of liberation, I see the men of damnation; I see them from the warmth of my cold mother. Why must there be the woes of our salient ink?
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