I Am a Filipino, Not a Magician

I am a Filipino, not a magician

Yet with these flowers of freedom ceiba again

Redeem their fresh green yesterday from victory,

Sacred in its harvest, in every bower

Unfolded to its morning flower, or reclaimed

The little memory of the memory trust

Hangs itself into a wonderful invention

One nature that the gracious nature of its crime

Pines upon the infinite freedom of their time,

Following our line of straining by the ocean

Evermore to our sea and gathering gave;

Familiar as that time in the leaden shore

Flows down the ancient silent gladness together

Around a green shade in the infinite silence

Of the great beauty that they heard in yesterday

Stifling in their sunshine, as from every leaf

As if their harmless help could never overwhelm

Vibration of the solid freedom at their back.

Building them suddenly the solitude of space,

Weaving on picture of her tranquil countenance.

Golden her fair setting for a weary hours,

Treading the pleasant harvest of her mountain chain.

Giving her ancient promise to the ancient wood

Beside her rugged Son the godlike nations lean.

Hers is the fiery of that celestial flame.