Kumain ka na ba?
Anong oras na.
Oras na para kumain.
Umupo ka na, 'wag mahiya.
Para sa'yo lahat itong nakahain.
Isang oras lang.
Pero busog ka na ba?
Isang oras pa.
Merienda lang, mahal.
Kahit pa hanggang almusal.
Pasensya ka na, ito lang ang hiling.
Hindi na nanaisin pa na ito'y patagalin.
Pwede na ba akong umalis?
Hindi na aasamin na lalong magkamali.
Boses mo ang siyang multo at baon ko.
Ang mga mata ko'y suki ng alaala mo.
Mali ang ito'y piliting maging tama.
Tama na siguro ang muntik na.
Plato at kubyertos ay iligpit na.
At ang basura ay aking susunugin na.
Kutsara at baso ay itago na.
At ang alaala natin ay kalimutan na.

Be careful when eating its flesh.
For it is the color of the sunrise,
but its stains leaves tinges of sunburn.
Be careful in savoring its juices,
for the flavor might be sweet
but the price to pay is steep.
Its tree is mighty, yet not for climbing.
The fruit dreamy, yet will sting like a bee.
I will forget your name, like a cliché novela.
I will forget your face, like another man.
As the season of mangoes comes to a close,
I will soon bury the skin and all yellows.
As I welcome the taste of the storms,
be devoured by the rains and pours,
I will heal like a witch with smoke and fire,
I will forget you like night forgets the light.

⁠Even if you are an enemy
who's bound to hurt me,
I would still ask you
to come sit and eat with me.
Even if you are an enemy
who's sent to capture me,
I would still ask you
to stay for a while,
share even this one meal with me.
Even if you are an enemy
who's ordered to **** me,
I would still ask you;
"Have you eaten?
Kumain ka na ba?
Ya comiste?
Ja has menjat?"
And if you say you haven't,
I'll take out the plates, but
I'll be angered.
Because look at the time!
And if you say you already did,
then I'd let you take me out,
my head lowered.
You can waste my time!
Even if you are an enemy
who's bound to hurt me...

It's all but one monday in May,
but a fair maiden as I
want nothing more,
want nothing much,
than to make a mistake.
To forget June, July,
and the mayday,
or the dread of next monday.
I want to walk at the beach, feet on sand,
like I have any other choice...
I want to eat mangoes in an island,
hear your morning voice...
I want to feel your lips, hold your hand,
as if you have any other choice...
I know you want to feel my hips,
so make up your mind.
You are running out of time.
Either hear my moans or my plain voice...
Make up your mind.
While I make you my man,
and make your mondays fun.
So make up your ******* mind.
You are running out of god-given time.
Make me your woman,
and make my mornings warm.
Make love to me at dawn,
I'll kiss your doubts away to sundown.
We'll make love until the fall of this town,
we'll build a new kingdom without a crown.

What of languages, if you only need a few words to tell me the truth?

What of learning dialects, if you only need a single sentence to ask the ocean to stay still for a moment?

What use are the multiple languages you speak, when you can't use a single one of them to say what you feel?

What about the new language you taught me, do I forget it and throw it to the sea? What good is it, if I'm slowly becoming mute?

So what of languages, if you only have to answer yes or no?

So what of dialects, if I couldn't even ask you to drown me in your ocean of lies, let your waves sink me, eat me alive?

So what use are the multiple languages we speak, if we can't use a single word, a sentence, not a single language to say
the multitudes of feelings we feel?

What about the new language you taught me?
Do I write about it, let it hurt and ****?
How bad will it be, if I were to die on this hill?

I have always likened my summers to those summers of my childhood vacations.
And every passing year, I feel like it's slipping further away from me on and on.
I have always imagined another summer full of sun, sand and fun.
Like that of my childhood days
that have been long gone.
I say to the sun; "please, even just another one."
But then I've lost count of how many summers have passed,
and all it did was pass me by.
I've lost track of how much time and how much of my dreams has been gone,
and how they just all fly.
I pray to the sea; "please, don't kiss me goodbye."
I kept waiting and chasing for summer,
but then maybe summer also thought
I am to be chased away.
I won't hold it against the rains
that pours in the middle of May,
I just hold my palms together and pray.
I sing to the sands; "please, I don't mind that you are gray!"

Sometimes, I crave the mango ice candies that our rich neighbor used to make and sell.
The sounds of my old coin bank whenever I would shake it, like a captivating church bell.
Every summer, they go to Guimaras and back to Manila to sell mangoes from their farmland.
Mangoes that I remember were bigger than my head, but as smooth as my hand.
But their matriarch passed when I was in fifth grade and stopped making them since.
Looking back, I feel like that's also when my childhood have died, felt her last kiss.
Now sometimes, I think about how I would never feel the delight of my childhood summers ever again.
Like how I would never taste the sweet mango ice candy that my childhood neighbor used to make in May.
Now sometimes, I wallow in fear over how I'll never get to feel the summer that my soul is so craving anymore.
Like how I would chase summer, only to be followed by the rain and thunders, by the threat of a low tide shore.
God I hope I'm wrong.
I really hope I'm wrong.
So I say, pray and sing,
to the sands, sun and sea;
"May you bring my childhood,
my old summers back to me!"

Sometimes, I sit and think about how perfect some things are. Like nature.
Sometimes, I stop and admire how perfectly orchestrated some things are.
Sometimes, I think about how I think you came to my life at the perfect time.
Sometimes, I realize that maybe we go beyond time itself, like sun does to night.
Sometimes though, I'd think that maybe you're just another lesson, yet of what?
Sometimes too, I'd sit with myself and ask,
haven't I learned my lesson? But there's you.
Maybe we are made to be together,
like two perfect puzzle pieces made to fit.
Maybe we are meant to be for each other,
like post-modern world and a pile of bills.
Maybe I was born to make you feel better,
like a childhood snack that you still eat.
Maybe you were made to make me believe,
that everything has a reason for being.
Maybe we are meant to be together,
like eating mango in the heat of summer.
Maybe we are meant to simply meet,
like waves to shore, to touch each other.