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Today, you're eight months old
But I only saw you
Three days ago.

Before you came out
Women's tongues wagged.
Men spoke of a rooster's
Head covered with dung
Over bahalina.*

They talked about a
Small hut, swaying
A young woman, moaning
And a male neighbor
On horseback.

You don't have
The nose of my brother
Nor the eyes of
Your brothers,
Mayo Uno and
Agusto Luwa.
Instead you have
That silly smirk
Of a cowboy.

Cry not, for
These scissors
Will never be
Your strands of hair
Will tell if my
Was inside
A hut seventeen
Months ago.

*A local wine made from coconut juice.

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The following comments are for "Hunyo Rasa"
by Jabeelah

feels timeless
This is a pretty interesting work. Fascinating. Draws the reader in.

( Posted by: icarus [Member] On: July 22, 2005 )

despite the distance
Hi icarus. Thanks for the encouraging words. I’m glad that somebody like you (one of the more active and better writers of this group) thinks the way you think about my work.

I thought this will only be understood by those who share the same experience of living in a remote place like mine. That was my problem because at first I didn't know how to select the right words.

( Posted by: Jabeelah [Member] On: July 28, 2005 )

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