Clouds Over Negros
By Isagani Serrano

From the maddening city
of gringos and Mercedes
popeyed and potbellied kids
across acres and acres of grass
where once grew only juicy canes
up, up we climbed to a blessed
nestled village by the mountainside
a mirage amid abandoned land.

Over us hovered the clouds
velvety and soft against
the blue skies, not in the least
like the high cloudless blue skies
of Madrid which you said
you’d never ever come to like.

In the heat of the sun
gingerly, we snaked through
meandering dikes of red earth
mindful of the little erosions
our heavy steps might trigger.

We thought of the hands
that worked them hours on end
the precious labor of so many
who care enough about giving life
to more lives. And as we traced
the canal to its source
we held hands, gently at first
then gradually in a tight squeeze
as if to help the water out
into the arms of the cracking
wasteland.

Meanwhile the sun
played games with the clouds
sometimes succeeding to shake off
the clouds, but they would always
be there where you needed them to be
whenever you wanted them to shut off
the harsh glow of sunlight
and give us the best shots
of you and me, of me and them
of you and them, of you and
the little creatures who kept on
following you like people would come
to look for America they’d never find.

Or, just maybe, to get from you
a piece of that old American story
they long ago wanted to hear
yet perhaps would never understand.

In the starless evening
and long into the night
with the clouds still there
sailing, dancing with the half moon
we told each other’s stories
shared kindred cares and dreams
as we gladly allowed ourselves
to be lost in soulful songs
and deja vu.

Little did we
notice the clouds already breaking
into April showers, into myriad
drops of crystals against
the yellow streaks of night bulbs.

We wondered how nice things
could be gone in a flash.

Yet the clouds would be there
ever to stir us, to turn us on
endlessly, whenever we think
of flying, floating, of turning
our eyes away from where
we stand. Even in parting
we never ceased to wonder:

Aren’t they the same clouds
you see in California? Or the ones
you’d see tenderly hugging the Alps?

The fluffy, cottonlike stuff
together we saw in Divina Colonia?
They seem everywhere the same--
those clouds over Negros.

Like bubbles, one day they’ll burst.

December 1987

Amsterdam