the grasses have grown tall in the clearing. no food can be offered but the vast scenery at the foot of Mt. Bintacan offers haven to weary bodies and minds.   over there is the town. noisy is the race for storing up wealth among the exploiters; riotous the race for slavishness.   every heave of the banner of the well-fed is a blow at the countryside's poverty.   the traitors could not wait for the victory march of liberation. they're now at the capitol, partaking of the proffered plenty on the tables of the rich- chunks of roasted pig dipped in the blood-sauce of the revolutionary martyrs, hot broth of sweat wrung from the arms of the down-trodden, whisky of collected tears of the violated women.   in front is Mt. Bulusan: plaintive is the gurgle of her streams, the howl of her rivers; she too searches. . . "where are the lively footfalls of the cadres and Red fighters? my streams await to quench their thirst: in the cupboard are boiled sweet potatoes ready to appease their hunger; and the lush leaves and grasses offer refuge against the savagery of the brutal enemy"   mixed hatred and sadness reign in the hearts and minds of the oppressed. a ray of hope had beamed before but on their future, darkness is cast once more... "your end will come, revisionists! did you think we were helpless? we will push the struggle forward, the spear of rectification, of hatred, is the Bulusan Volcano that will deal you punishment! you will burn in the blaze of our revolt!"   (E.P.)