Gaya ng bumbilya, siya ay binhing uusbong sa gitna ng dilim. Gaya ng rosas, hindi kasalanan ng kanyang mga tinik kung sa pagkapit mo'y magkasugat ang mga daliri. Hindi niya ginustong maging uhaw sa paglaya. Hindi niya hiniling ang mabuhay nang nakatali.
Marikit, makulay, malaya. May pangungulila at pagkamuhi. May kalinga at pag-ibig. Isa siya sa lahat ng ito at siya ang lahat ng 'yan. Siya ay binubuo ng maraming maliliit at magagandang bagay.
Hindi ikaw ang maghahatid sa kanyang lugar. Hindi maitatago sa anino ang kanyang liwanag. Hindi malilimitahan ang kanyang damdamin. Hindi ikaw ang magdidikta ng kanyang kakayahan. Hindi siya makukulong sa iisang pagkakakilanlan.
Anay sa Bukid
ni Jossa Rafoncel Par
(Dibuho ni Kaiser Aaron Caya/The Communicator)
Bumbilyang tinanggalan ng sindi,
Sa isang iglap may nawalan ng puri.
Inani ito ng anay sa bukid.
Pinilit pitasin, usbong na binhi.
Mapaklang hapag na bunga ng dusa,
Matamis sa nagsakang may nasa.
Dagta sa kamay ng anay,
Kinabukasan ang nakataya.
Ngayon sa bawat tirik ng araw,
Papaso itong walang humpay.
Inay, pakipatay nang walang alinlangan.
Pesteng anay sa bukid na ating bahay.
Rose’s Garden
by Dulce Amor Rodriguez
(Illustration by Kurt Aguilar Mendez/The Communicator)
I always wander through the garden of expectations, where the petals of societal norms bloom with thorns of conformity. I am but a rose caught in the tempest of time, my petals wilting under the weight of unspoken burdens and unfulfilled promises.
Wherever I go, people would compliment me. My steps ring with the silent thunder of unspoken battles fought within, even with a cloak of resilience draped over my shoulders.
Whenever I look in front of a mirror, I see a silhouette that is both familiar and foreign. I am an embodiment of femininity, a mosaic of beauty and strength intertwined in a dance of contradictions. But beneath the surface, a river of doubts and fears flow, carrying the resounding voices that long to break free from the chains of expectation.
My reflection is fractured into a kaleidoscope of roles and expectations. I always hear the reverberation of my own unspoken truths, the whispers of a world that often underestimates the depth of my spirit and the breadth of my dreams.
It feels like my stem is filling with water and I’m in agony every time I try to breathe. I can’t escape no matter how hard I try and I end up withering slowly without even knowing why I had to endure this.
I wondered where I could find peace.
Where could I go if I want to nourish?
Or to have to shed tears?
Like predators, they would lurk in the alleys, their claws leaving invisible marks on my spirit. The names they gave me pierce the air to the insidious whispers that tarnish my reputation—bearing the burden of being a woman in a world that often sees me as less than.
The world, like a chameleon, changes its colors to suit the whims of those who hold the reins of power. It is a labyrinth of illusions, a masquerade where wolves don the masks of sheep and truths are buried beneath layers of deception.
And so, in the garden of expectations where the roses bloom with thorns and the night sky whispers secrets of forgotten dreams, my spirit yearns to shed the shackles of femininity and break free from the chains of societal norms.
The Puppet, The Masked Man and The Shadow behind the Rainbow
by Jamaica Elcano
(Illustration by Alyzza Marie Sales/The Communicator)
As the spotlights turn their head towards me,
I glanced at the people upfront.
Looking at my dress, they grimaced—
As if disgusted by the amount of skin it showed.
The masked man pulled a string.
Looking at my dress, they adored me—
As if delighted by how it's how they perceived it to be.
Another thread was pulled, shortly after the other,
They showered me with praises—
As if they've seen the most beautiful maiden.
The masked man continuously tugged the cords,
Creating chaos—an untangled heave of threads.
Bruised and tired, I looked up.
Before the curtains closed, I felt a twitch;
Tired and bruised, I forcefully smiled.
Years wore out the threads—slowly unbecoming.
Someone cut the strings and prevented my further ruin.
Behind their shadow is a rainbow,
There, I saw hope.
At last, I can finally live as me—
Free from the hold of the masked man.
Patay na si Maria
ni Julia Manzano
(Dibuho ni Luke Perry Saycon/The Communicator)
Humagulgol ang mga madre, patay na si Maria!
Patay na si Maria, sa bukas at sa alaala.
Katawang bakas ang palad ng karahasan,
Dignidad na itinanggi at pinagsamantalahan.
Mga yapak na ‘di na muling nahaplos ang lupa,
At tinig na hindi na makakalikha.
Patay na si Maria, pinatay ng estado!
Kinitilan ng boses sa sariling tertitoryo.
Sumiklab ang apoy kung hanggang dito na lang ba?
Ang pagpipigil sa hikbi at pag-iisip na nakaselda?
Hindi na mutya kundi himagsik ng rosas.
Dala ang silakbo sa kanyang pahimakas.
Patay na si Maria! Patay na ang dayang!
Pagsamo sa isang bayang ipaglalaban ang kababaihan.
Sa timpi ng galit na biglang bumuhos,
Lalakas ang boses, di na muling mamamaos.
Yakapin ang lambing ng init ng pag-aalsa.
Dahil lalaya rin si Maria! Lalaya ka!
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