The smoke caresses The pine trees On its way to the rice terraces Upwards, gradually merging With the already-darkening clouds. The huge rocks are unmoved Long rendered speechless by time.   And we, awestruck, are embraced by the wind Caressed into stillness by the dew Silenced all Comrade, mountain, tree, stone As if listening to each other's breathing The approaching huts Look as tiny as playthings Waiting for those born of the mountain.   At a signal from a comrade just emerged from the spell We resume the narrow path through the fields Feeling the weight of our rifles and packs less With the picture impressed on our minds.   The village that earlier was just in view Suddenly comes to life Some youths watch from the windows Their elders await us inside the dap-ay Shyly, the women wave Children at play run to greet us The dogs acknowledge their visitors.   Around the fire, the masses and the guerrillas merge Feasting on stories and exchanging views A vivid picture, this This, the color of struggle.   (J.B.)