by Jose Maria Sison
The guerilla is like a poet
Keen to the rustle of leaves
The break of twigs
The ripples of the river
The smell of fire
And the ashes of departure.
The guerilla is like a poet.
He has merged with the trees
The bushes and the rocks
Ambiguous but precise
Well-versed on the law of motion
And the master of myriad of images.
The guerilla is like a poet
Enrhymed with nature
The subtle rhythm of the greenery
The outer silence, the outer innocence
The steel tensile in-grace
That ensnares the enemy.
The guerilla is like a poet.
He moves with the green-brown multitude
In bush burning with red flowers
That crown and hearten all
Swarming the terrain as a flood
Marching at last again st the stronghold.
An endless movement of strength
Behold the protracted theme:
The people’s epic, the people’s war.
