Cracked is the parched earth In the hot days. The harvest fills to the brim The landlord's granary, The coffers of the loan shark. The poor peasant still has something left To cook. Along the narrow ridge of the paddies, The leaves of makahiya fold At the slightest touch, but its spines Are daggers aimed. How vast the fields, the plains. Who would have known That only a handful owns The land Thousands of toiling people Have cleared and tilled For generations? The barbed wires Of the ruling classes Are daggers aimed. The intense heat of the sun Hones each blade of talahib, The river shimmers Struck by light, The bamboos creak In the gust of wind. Silent Are the huts. There's a whimper In the creak of the floor, in the gush Of water at the batalan. A father, Mother, child or brother is missing. Another corpse would float On the river, stink In the forest, or rot In prison. The howl Of grief, the cry Of revolt reach up To the sky. The path Up the mountain has been flattened   By feet used to clinging Onto even a clod of earth Or jutting stone. The trees Tower. Between The branches, a lively flutter Of wings. Beneath the leaves, The sound of a free Song. The oppressed gather in a meeting.   (E.P.)