By all the Bicolanos young or old
'Tis felt and seen by pilgrim, foe or friend
Why is it so, one cannot comprehend.
They swear that when the Lady journeys home
On her pagoda lined with gilt and chrome
No other woman, must be beside her throne
The barge will sink, if she is not alone!
Her motley court of cheering, singing men
Has always left me with a wistful yen
But others with their condescending look
Who think that life's an artificial book,
Keep saying, "it's a swaying parody
Of what a real procession ought to be
A Christian trimming on a pagan mood---
The adoration of a piece of wood!"
Let me tell you just a thing or two
About this "drunken" candle-lighted queue.
We know we are not much, mere publicans,
Bare-footed ones of humble circumstance.
Impulsive ones whose common bond is love
For our Madonna of Bikol Up above.
Ah, countless times we sighed, she always heard!
And God could not deny His mother's word!
And so, of all the images of her
We hold no other lovelier, and dearer,
Than this, her "Peñafrancia photograph"
For it is our very own. And that's enough!
"VIVA LA VIRGEN! VIVA!" The fluvial rite
Is on! And raucous cheering fills the night!
Must love be always said in solitude?
Is joy not joy when felt in multitude?
You smile, your thoughts are asking why we drink.
The river's cold! Or have you stopped to think?
*The Rainbow, September, 1965
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