There are spirits, they say,
who only come out of the rocks to dance
when the wind dies down since they’re so thin
their bones would snap.
We hear their soft nocturnal noise,
under the window, in empty rooms—such music
of uncertainty and hesitation,
like a guitar when a string is about to break.
And then it composes itself in the wind.
We seem to see their gradual dismembering,
the quick shudder, the slight quiver, before they snap.
And then fragments gather once again. What has gone
returns in dark places. What’s broken
often grows back. Nothingness lays an egg.
It is the hour, when frail twilight insects
drift through long corridors and shed their wings,
that a bell tolls from the campanile.
It is a time to reflect on their distress:
one that expunges shame, vanity, earthly worries,
while they hide behind rocks away from the gust.
Fragile objects rupture at the slightest movement,
collapse at indelicate moments, swooning
into the egg of Night.
Send us your poetry and fiction
Super publishes poetry and fiction. Please send a piece of short fiction (or an excerpt from a longer work that is 500-800 words) or three poems in English or Filipino to firstname.lastname@example.org or to Ruel S. De Vera, Literary Editor, Super, c/o Philippine Daily Inquirer, 1098 Chino Roces Ave., Makati City 1204 Metro Manila.
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