they who are clinging and swinging on vines
in the forest of darkness and fear
don’t want to immerse themselves
and swim in the turbulent sea of life
though they’re are always searching for genuine pearls
don’t even desire to enter, sleep and dream
in huts in hills, mountains and fields
nor even like to stare at the dewdrops
descending on desolate blades of grass
to see the tears of the dispossessed
or even step on clayish soil of irrigated fields
while swaying are the jumbled talahib grass
to feel the pulsating, revolting breast
of the oppressed-downtrodden class
when would they dip their fingers
in vinegar and salty sauce
if their hands only used to touch and caress
smooth porcelain cups, glittering silver spoons
and crystal goblets of aged wines?
when would they mash the cold cooked-rice
so truths would come out from their swollen mouths
which used to eat and chew
the torn pages of antiquated books
evading to dissect and expose
the maladies of a society
ruled by the exploitative class
and gluttonous bureaucratic crooks?

they who are clinging and swinging on vines
in the forest of darkness and fear
don’t want to see the squirting blood
of fingers cut-off by machines of greed
till the skin, flesh and bones are mixed
with ground meat of canned corn beef
they who are clinging and swinging on vines
in the forest of darkness and fear
they whose creamy soups are saliva of geniuses
like hume, heiddeger, nietzche and freud
but could not distinguish a bit
if marinated or boiled or half-cooked
the theories they want to propagate
hence the masses pulsating throats
could not swallow the rhetorics
and blatant ideas of half-truths
so they are scavenging cats and rats
lost in the dumpsites of hogwash
and decomposing nauseating trash.

you who are clinging and swinging on vines
in the forest of darkness and fear
why not jump off the cliffs?
why not release the vines you firmly hold
and let the feet feel the soil of despair
and also smell the pungent odor
of exploding bombs and firing guns?
why not smell the peppery sweat
of emaciated peasants toiling
on the land not theirs?
why not gaze at the sacadas
while kneeling at enslaving haciendas
and reciting the prayers of grief
in sugarmills and canefields?
why not hear the lamentations of mothers
the cussing of rebellious fathers
the lyrics of poverty and sorrows
of victims of injustices?
why not discern the melodies of tormented souls?
then, yes, then,
the rampaging whirling wind
and the hissing of bullets and lightnings
could finally give meaning
to the persistent questions
of the obnoxious objective realities
that could not be answered and resolved
by antiquated, wormy books!