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Ace of Herald: The Literary Desk of PnC's The Herald, Cabuyao (2026)

06/04/2026

𝗙𝗥𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗗 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬 #𝟭𝟮: 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗚𝗜𝗥𝗟 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗗𝗨𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗣𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗜𝗧
(𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘺: 𝘔. 𝘓𝘢𝘺𝘢)

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙪𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙋𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙏𝙤𝙙𝙖𝙮,

I told you I would not fail you, remember? That I will not regret a thing. That the last thing I would do in this lifetime was to forget the reason behind your smile in this graduation portrait. Please know that I still remember. But, you see, I fear that time by time now, I find myself crawling on my wobbling knees, shrinking onto the ground, hoping (O, HOW I HATE THIS WORD) to feel the same smile on my countenance again.

It is not the same as we dreamed of it to be—everything—if we had even learned to dream at all. You saw this day as something as absurd as reaching the sky, and what more, the stars, far and dark, and yet still, you were able to see a flicker of light: from a lone star against the rain in the night, from the trees lending you their dappling hopes, and from somewhere here. While I see this day as the emptiness before grief lives; as the sighs only the trees can hear; as a long walk I keep choosing; as handwritten poems that remain sitting, untitled; as seconds and minutes and hours and days and months, and almost a year, passing by without me; as now, insufferable and strangling, fleeting but endless, and yet I see no light near.

I wish I could still soften the darkness as you used to do. Or at least, I wish we could just keep on pretending as we could. I wish I could still hear hope like it is reaching for me after all, like at any time, it would come back and sing me a song. I wish I could still feel the same way as the 17-year-old me did, wrapped around possibilities, and the will to walk for it all.

I would wear my I.D lace with the words, "SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL," printed on it as if Monday had yet to come, and I would settle into my seat and would never feel like I am all by myself again.

But I would have to wake up. And forget about living. I would have to strain my throat to speak and scream, but then nothing would make a sound and stir. I would have to witness myself being eaten by the thought of falling behind, day by day, most of the time when I am running out of time, rushing to every class scheduled at 7:00 AM. I would have to listen to the tumult of the crowd in hopes I would bump into what my heart has been telling me all this time, but there is none, and I would lose it. I would have to tame my mind, over and over, and hush it like it is a weeping child wanting to be held. I would have to skip meals and breaths because I am tormentingly aware that I am not trying hard enough. I would forget that it is the 6th of April today, and so is the last time I felt alive. At another 12:00 AM, I find myself wishing that my 4:00 AM alarm, set from Monday to Sunday, would not ring again to remind me of today.

I would wear my I.D lanyard, and I would know it says: "COLLEGE," even if it was not printed on it. For it would drag me like a co**se being forced to stand still and check for the pile-up deadline after deadline, waiting to be read.

Since I entered college, I think I have forgotten what the broom in our house and our backyard last looked like, or how long the dust on our closed windows has been left untouched; but it has never failed to remind me how many leaves have yet fallen from the trees by the benches I always run to, and that time does not pause for anyone.

Still, I do not regret a thing, 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. But, please, forgive me, for I am not living the way you would risk everything, even your smile, for me to be.

And every single time I will long for your smile, I will endure this ache. Or nostalgia. Or perhaps guilt.

For losing your smile with today.

(𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺: 𝘔. 𝘓𝘢𝘺𝘢)
(𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘺: 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘍𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘰𝘯)

31/03/2026

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗙𝗔𝗖𝗔𝗗𝗘
𝘼 𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙒𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣'𝙨 𝙈𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙝 𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡

#𝟯: 𝗦𝗜 𝗜𝗦𝗔𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗔, 𝗦𝗜𝗬𝗔 𝗔𝗬 𝗠𝗔𝗬 𝗟𝗔𝗬𝗔
(𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪: 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘦 𝘒𝘢𝘺𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘢)

Sa hardin ng inaasahan, siya’y nakatali—
Perpektong anyo, perpektong ngiti.
Ngunit sa likod ng talulot na makintab,
May pusong naghahangad ng sariling landas.

Hindi na rosas ang kaniyang pinili,
Kundi mga anyong ligaw na sa tibay humihingi.
Kaktus na matatag, palumpong na buo;
Babaeng lumilikha ng daang totoo.
Sagisag ng tapang, sagisag ng tibay;
Siya’y marunong pumili ng sariling buhay.

Sa bawat galaw, sa bawat pag-usbong,
Binuwag ang tanikala ng huwad na utos.
Isabela, dalagang matapang,
Ngayon ay malaya, sa sarili’y lubos.

Awitin natin ang kaniyang tinig,
Awitin natin ang kaniyang himig.
Babaeng malaya, babaeng matapang,
Sa sariling tinig, siya’y makapangyarihan.

Isabela, bulaklak ng kalayaan,
Sa sariling tinig, lakas ay sumibol.
Babaeng matapang, hindi na bihag,
𝘚𝘪𝘺𝘢 𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘢, 𝘴𝘪𝘺𝘢 𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘺.

Sa bawat talulot, sumisibol ang giting,
Sa bawat ugat, lakas ay walang hangganan.
Sa kaniyang pagyakap sa tunay na sarili,
Nagbigay-ilaw sa landas ng marami.

Siya si Isabela, siya ay malaya.

(𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘪: 𝘑𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘢 𝘛𝘶𝘪𝘻𝘢)
(𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘪: 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘢 𝘋𝘦 𝘓𝘰𝘺𝘰𝘭𝘢)

28/03/2026

𝗙𝗥𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗗 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬 #𝟭𝟭: 𝗔𝗕𝗢𝗧-𝗞𝗔𝗠𝗔𝗬
(𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪: 𝘑𝘢𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘙𝘰𝘩𝘮 𝘉𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘯)

Minsan, napapaisip ako, nakakatawa palang isipin na ako ay iyong nilisan. At kahit ’di ko man ninais, nagpatangay sa ’yo ’yung ligaya na natamasa ko, at ’yung kulay na ating binuo. Sa layo ng narating mo, nawalan na lang ako ng pag-asa—’di dahil sa tumigil ako, kundi dahil sinigurado mong ’di na ako makahahabol pa.

Siguro nga’y panahon na upang tanggapin na baka hanggang dito na lamang ako, nagmamasid at tinatanaw ang buhay mo kahit na ikaw ay nasa malayo. Paulit-ulit ko na lamang sasabihin sa aking sarili na huwag na lang tangkaing lumapit, dahil baka mas lalo ka pang lumayo.

Sana lang ay habang minamasdan kitang umusad, sumagi sa isipan ko na harapin ang tinalikuran kong daanan upang masilip lamang ‘yung iyo. Nagbabakasakali ako na sa bawat ngiti at pagkakataong iyong nabuo ay makakuha ako ng lakas upang bitawan ang pagsilip sa buhay mong wala na ako.

Tatanawin ko na lamang sa malayong distansya ang buhay mo at baka sakaling sa panonoood ko ay maisipan ko ring tumalikod at tahakin ang sariling landas ko. Mahirap kung itutuon ko habang buhay ang mga mata ko sa iyong direksiyon at umasang ako’y iyong lilingunin at aanyayahang palapitin.

Pasensya kung pipiliin kong ‘wag nang lumingon. Hahayaan ko na lamang ang distansyang namamagitan sa atin ang magsilbing pader sa halip na bintana upang ‘di na ako makasilip pa sa kung anong buhay ang meron ka na.

(𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺: 𝘑𝘢𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘙𝘰𝘩𝘮 𝘉𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘯)
(𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺: 𝘊𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨)

21/03/2026

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗙𝗔𝗖𝗔𝗗𝗘
𝘼 𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙒𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣'𝙨 𝙈𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙝 𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡

#𝟮: 𝗪𝗢𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥 𝗪𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡 𝗦𝗔 𝗞𝗔𝗧𝗔𝗨𝗛𝗔𝗡 𝗡𝗜 𝗟𝗨𝗜𝗦𝗔
(𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪: 𝘈𝘴𝘪𝘢)

Sa paglabas ko’y napuno ng tanong ang bayan.
May mga puna sa aking pisikal na kaanyuan,
At may ilan ding papuri sa aking kakayahan,
Simulan natin sa mga puna, mga komentong walang pakundangan:
Tulad nito—dahil ba ang aking katawan ay salungat sa inyong pamantayan,
Hindi na ako maituturing na kasing ganda ng ibang kababaihan?

Komento nila: Bakit malaki ang iyong katawan?
Pasaring ng isa: “𝘉𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘦 𝘬𝘢 𝘬𝘢𝘺𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯
May kurba “𝘳𝘢𝘸” dapat para kaaya-ayang tingnan.
Bakit hanggang ngayon, ganiyan pa rin ang kaisipan?
Lumipas na ang panahon, iyan pa rin ang basehan.
Kailangan bang magbago para lang tanggapin ng karamihan?

Mabuti’t taglay ko ang lakas na lampas sa kakayahan ng tao.
Marahil ito rin ang dahilan ng aking pigurang maskulado.
Hindi man kaaya-aya sa mata ng iba, marami namang natulungan ang katawang ito.
Matatag at matibay—’yan ako sa paningin ng mga tao.
Ngunit sa kaibuturan, naroon pa rin ang takot sa aking puso.
𝘕𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘪𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘳𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢 𝘬𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘨 𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘪 𝘬𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘬𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘰.

Tanong nila: “Hindi man lang ba sumasakit ang aking likod kahit minsan?”
Sagot ko’y: “Hindi naman—ako yata si Wonder Woman!”
Pag-aalala nila: “Hindi ba ako nahihirapan?”
Tugon ko’y: “Hindi naman, dahil ito na ang aking nakasanayan.”
May araw bang nakaramdam ako ng pagod?
Ang sagot ko lamang ay: 𝙠𝙖𝙝𝙞𝙩 𝙨𝙞 𝙒𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙒𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙮 𝙣𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙜𝙤𝙙 𝙧𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙠𝙖𝙩𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙥𝙖𝙣.

Napagtanto ko na ang lakas pala’y hindi lamang nakikita sa pagiging maskulado,
Ang ganda’y hindi nasusukat sa pisikal na anyo ng tao.
Bagkus, ang tunay na malakas ay yaong marunong ding maging mahina,
At ang tunay na maganda’y may mabuting puso, hindi lamang puro puna.
Mayroong positibo at negatibong komento; kaliwa’t kanan ang pupuri at pupuna sa’yo.
Nakakapagod itong pakinggan, paulit-ulit sa isip; kaya’t maging malakas, ngunit huwag ubusin ang sarili.
Iyan ang laging tandaan.

(𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘪: 𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘋𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘴)
(𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘪: 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘢 𝘋𝘦 𝘓𝘰𝘺𝘰𝘭𝘢)

17/03/2026

𝗖𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲: This piece includes themes of emotional distress and negative inner voices.

𝗙𝗥𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗗 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬 #𝟭𝟬: 𝗚𝗨𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗡𝗔 𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗜 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗔𝗣𝗨𝗧𝗢𝗟
(𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪: 𝘚𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘢 𝘔𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘯)

Naggupit ako ng buhok.

Binalot ng nakabibinging katahimikan ang aking silid. Tiningnan ko ang repleksyon ng sarili sa salamin: nakakunot ang noo, mamula-mula ang pisngi, nakatikom ang labi, at nanunubig ang mga mata. 𝘏𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺.

Nilibot ko ang aking paningin upang hanapin ang basurahan at nahagip iyon sa ‘di kalayuan, nakaharap sa akin at nagniningning, tila nagsusumigaw na “𝗣𝗨𝗡𝗢 𝗡𝗔 𝗔𝗞𝗢!”. Ayos lang 'yan, kaya pang isiksik.

Ilalagay ko na sana roon ang mga buhok na nasa lamesa nang biglang liparin ang ilan sa mga ito patungo sa pintuan.

Kamalasan.

Tumitig ako roon, nagdadalawang-isip kung lalapit ba ako o hindi. Pero dahil kailangan, kahit na labag sa ‘king kalooban, ay lumapit na ako para damputin ang mga iyon. Napatigil ako't kinuyom ang kamao nang marinig ang nakasasawang tinig—ang mga boses na mariing bumubulong kahit na nasa sulok nitong kwarto.

𝘋𝘶𝘨 𝘥𝘶𝘨.

Napapikit na lamang ako nang mariin at pilit na itinutuon ang pandinig sa tunog ng tibok ng aking puso.

𝘏𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 𝘮𝘰 𝘬𝘢𝘺𝘢.
𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘶𝘬𝘰 𝘬𝘢 𝘯𝘢.
𝘔𝘢𝘨-𝘪𝘴𝘢 𝘬𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨.
𝘏𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘨-𝘣𝘶𝘩𝘢𝘺 𝘬𝘢 𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘪 𝘳𝘪𝘺𝘢𝘯.

Nananakit na ang aking lalamunan sa kapipigil ng pagtulo ng luha kaya naman dinampot ko na ang mga hibla ng buhok at padabog na itinapon sa basurahan. Muli ay napatitig ako roon. 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙝𝙤 𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙖𝙡𝙖 𝙩𝙖𝙮𝙤. Wala nang mapaglayan pero padagdag nang padagdag ang mga basura.

Humiga ako at nagtaklob ng unan sa aking mukha. Kung para sa iba ay tanda ito ng pagtakbo… Edi sige, bibilisan ko pa! Ngunit tumatakbo ako hindi mula sa problema, kundi para sa solusyon nito. Kailangan ko lang talaga magbawas ng buhok dahil paano ako makatatakbo nang maayos kung ang dami kong dala-dala? Hindi rin ako nagtatago sa apat na sulok ng kwartong ito. Gusto ko lang makahinga sa mga kuto't lisa. Sana naman ay nabawasan na rin sila nang gupitin ko, ano? Lalabas kasi ako sa aking silid upang itapon ang mga kalat sa basurahan; haharapin ko na ang mga ito. Makikita ko na naman ang mga kuto—ang mga tao sa paligid; ang nagmamay-ari ng mga tinig na para bang ‘di maubos-ubos. Kung puwede lang na tirisin din sila ay ginawa ko na.

Naggupit ako para sandaling makalimot sa ingay ng mundo at maituon ang isipan sa hindi pantay na buhok ko. Ang bawat hibla na siyang nangalaglag ang tila sumasalamin sa mga mapanlinlang na boses, na sa wakas, humiwalay na sa akin. Ang basurahan na pinagtatapunan ng mga ito ang nagsisilbing tanda na kinaya ko. Na sa rami ng mga kalat, sa rami ng suliranin na makikita roon ay hindi ako sumuko. At sa hinaharap, habang nasasaksihan ko ang muling pagtubo ng aking buhok, mapapaalalahanan ako nito na malayo na ang narating ko.

Pero parang hindi yata maganda ang coping mechanism ko, ano? Dapat sigurong itago na ang mga gunting dito sa bahay. At sana, hindi ko na ito muling magamit pa.

(𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺: 𝘚𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘢 𝘔𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘯)
(𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺: 𝘒𝘢𝘺𝘦 𝘈𝘯𝘯 𝘖𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘰)

08/03/2026

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗙𝗔𝗖𝗔𝗗𝗘
𝘼 𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙒𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣'𝙨 𝙈𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙝 𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡

#𝟭: 𝗦𝗛𝗘, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗜𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗟𝗘
(𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘺: 𝘔. 𝘓𝘢𝘺𝘢)

"But what about Mirabel?"
The children could not know, so how can the world tell?
Remember, Mirabel, "You have nothing to prove!"
How certain must everyone be not to think those words could only mean that I am not good?

Good enough to be the change!
Good enough to make the chance!
If Mirabel were not trying too hard, getting in the way, like Isabela had felt,
Would Mirabel have even been something? Be seen as something?

"But who cares?" Mirabel would think,
"My family is amazing, and I am in my family!" Mirabel would sing.
Mirabel, indeed, is just as special as the rest of the family,
Mirabel, indeed, is just as wounded as the rest of the family!

You know what you saw, Mirabel—
Tiles clattering, like your hope cracking!
The doors, the hanged frames, and the light that never reached for you,
Dwindling in ruin like a normal house would!

But Mirabel,
Mirabel did not make the tiles clatter,
And her hope shatter;
Mirabel did not dim The Great Madrigal's light,
And the frames that did not reflect even a flicker of her shadow,
And O, the gifted doors,
When it never held on to her.

Mirabel was not the flaw,
The wreckage,
The mirror of this family's ruin now etched in some sort of prophecy and vision;

Mirabel was never the reason why this house was never a home,
But then her eyes remained open,
As much as her heart did,
Enough to be good,
Enough to be forgiving.

And if the world must ask again, "What about Mirabel?"
The children would sing along with the same child before the closed door, "You are more than just your gift!"

And the world shall listen as the door opens: She is the miracle,
The change,
The chance,

The soul.

(𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘺: 𝘈𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢 𝘔𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘢)
(𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘺: 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘢 𝘋𝘦 𝘓𝘰𝘺𝘰𝘭𝘢)

27/02/2026

𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗟𝗗: 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗜𝗭𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗞𝗘𝗦
𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙗𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙈𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙚𝙣

#𝟯: 𝗜 𝗦𝗘𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨
(𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘺: 𝘑𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦)
(𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘺: 𝘑𝘰𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘳 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰)

From the blackened path behind me and the dim phase of light ahead—yes, I see you.

Through the traces you tried to cover—the stain but scattered—I still found you.

Even when the rain surrenders
and the dusk dawn on shining,
I search for you—because you were never truly gone.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵.

Those small footsteps you left in the footings are the foot tracks beneath my own steps ahead—
each print was a quiet open gate for my future.
You guided me when no one wanted to do so.

The river of your tears did not drown me; it washed the dirt from my face.
The cleanse taught me how to breathe and see again.
You stayed when silence was my only companion, when the world turned its back.

So now I will shelter you
from this wretched world
and from the stench that coils in the sky.

I will glance you beneath a careful lens, study you through a magnifying glass—not to expose your insecurities, but to watch you from the noise of war as peace for my storm.

You have always lived inside the chambers of my heart, a sacred place that no one else may enter, no one else may touch and grasp.

May the giants try to grind us into the depths of the earth—they may scatter our bones, but they will never blow and ruin the dust from us.

May the monsters swallow us gradually—let their shadows close our eyes—they will not swallow us whole and dismantle the architecture of who we are. You kept moving even as the world nibbled at your edges, even as time chewed slowly through your patience and skin.

Yes, I see you—beneath my eyes,
climbing toward heaven on fractured legs, refusing to stop.

Yes, I see you—beneath my nose,
clearing a path to light of fame
with a crooked smile.

Yes, I see you—beneath my lips,
your silent scream trembling
while others look down as if you were nothing.

Yes, I see you—under the glass,
and I know that being small does not mean you are unseen.

I see you when you hide your face and body from a world that bruised you raw,
when dried blood and salt-stained tears
become your armor.

I see you even when you bury yourself six feet beneath.
You were never gone. You only forgot that you exist—and I remember
because I am your future, reaching back to pull you again.

25/02/2026

𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗩𝗢𝗜𝗖𝗘𝗦 𝗔𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗗
(𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘺: 𝘑𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦)
(𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘺: 𝘗𝘪𝘺𝘰)

They say the road was cracked from the riots and soldiers—yet it was never the boots. It was hatred.
𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳.

For smoke and flares filled the air—yet it was blood that veiled their eyes.

The saltwater showered the earth, but the tears of many filled the road—never the raindrops. It came from daughters. The sons. The mothers. The fathers. The many broke in despair and lost their joy.

February—
the day it became a revolution,
𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲'𝘀 𝘀𝗮𝗹𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.

No rifles scattered bullets and no kingdom conflict, but an anthem roared through the city like thunder.
It was the king holding the crown and killing the dove, freeing the crocodiles.
It was the prince's death that dawned the voice of silence with courage.

February—
when the people learned
that 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙤𝙢 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩
𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙖𝙜𝙚.

The old held the youth
as trembling legs and lips shared the same courage.
Nuns stood like fragile walls of heaven,
rosaries raised higher than rifles.
Heaven seemed to descend
as hell strained to rise—
it was salvation more than revolution.

Whispers of Hail Marys and Hymn of Lupang Hinirang pressed against the ears of the radio, of soldiers shouting to make a barricade from hope.

Candles glowed brighter
than corruption ever laughed.
The wind howled louder
than despair could sigh.
That day,
the world’s revolution
became humanity’s evolution.

Courage sang, and the bullets halted and cannons hesitated.
The cries of youth, of nuns, of mothers—
split battalions of the army in two,
like heaven tearing through hell.

Heartbeats soft,
then thunderous—
steadied the shaking road
and frightened devils back into shadow.
That was the beginning of the resolution.
History sighed.

The road remembered the crawling of despair and the stomps of hatred.
The air recalls the cries and prayers from below that still carry with them through the breeze.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥.

It was the present pulling back the past in as the cage was opened—never now closed.

This road shapes the fall of evil and the rise of hope.
Faith shielded fire and hope guarded peace.
The nation rose and corruption fell.
By standing unarmed and unafraid,
Filipino's pride was built that day.

24/02/2026

𝗙𝗥𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗗 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬 #𝟵: 𝗦𝗔 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗣 𝗡𝗚 𝗔𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗔𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗢
(𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪: 𝘙𝘩𝘦𝘢 𝘚𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘵)

Sa isip ko noon, paano sisikat ang umaga kung wala ang kaniyang tinig?
Paano lulubog ang gabi kung wala ang yakap na mahigpit?
Akala ko ang pag-ibig ay laging dalawahan,
na ang saya ay may kahati at ang lungkot ay sabay na pinapasan.

Lumipas ang mga taon, buwan, at linggo,
at isang araw ay natagpuan ko ang aking sarili
sa harap ng sarili kong anino.
Walang ibang kamay na hahawakan,
walang ibang balikat na masasandalan.

Noon, inakala kong ang anino ay tanda ng pag-iisa,
isang patunay na may kulang sa akin.
Ngunit sa gitna ng katahimikan,
unang umalingawngaw ang sarili kong paghinga.
Doon ko napagtanto na ang takot ko sa pag-iisa
ay hindi dahil sa pagkawala niya,
kundi dahil hindi ko pa lubos na nakikilala
ang aking sarili kapag ako’y nag-iisa.

Marami ang nagbago. Totoo, 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘣𝘢𝘨𝘰.
Dati, hinahanap ko ang saya sa ngiti ng iba.
Inaasa ko ang liwanag sa mga matang tumitingin pabalik sa akin.
Ngunit nang matutunan kong tumingin
sa iba’t ibang anggulo ng buhay,
unti-unti kong binuo ang sarili
sa ibang hulma, sa ibang kulay, at sa ibang anyo.

𝘏𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 𝘯𝘢 𝘢𝘬𝘰 𝘬𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘪 𝘯𝘢 𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘩𝘪𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘰,
kundi isang kabuuan na may sariling ningning.

At kung muling itanong ng mundo,
“Kakayanin mo ba kung mag-isa ka lamang sa dilim?”

Ngingiti ako,
hindi dahil may sasalo,
kundi dahil alam kong kahit tumalikod ang lahat,
𝗺𝗮𝘆 𝗶𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼 𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗶.

Ang sarili ko,
sa harap ng aking anino.

(𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺: 𝘚𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘢 𝘔𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘯)
(𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺: 𝘒𝘢𝘺𝘦 𝘈𝘯𝘯 𝘖𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘰)

20/02/2026

𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗟𝗗: 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗜𝗭𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗞𝗘𝗦
𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙗𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙈𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙚𝙣

#𝟮: 𝗔𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗔
(𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪: 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘔𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘭)
(𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘪: 𝘑𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘯𝘺 𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘣𝘢𝘯̃𝘦𝘻)

Kumusta, aking Pinta?
Naririto na naman ako, nakaupo sa dating silya,
sa mundong tila pinagkaitan ng kulay at walang ligaya.
Huwag mo akong titigan nang ganyan—
na tila ba ako ay isang banyaga!
Dahil kinakausap ko ang isang mukhang isinilang
mula sa basang pinsel at sisidlan ng pintura.

Nananatiling abo ang kulay ng umaga,
mabigat ang hangin sa bawat paghinga.
Pagod na sa pag-ikot na walang katapusan,
tao’y mga anino, sarili ay tinalikdan.
Walang hiyaw ng tuwa, puso ay sarado.
Humahawak sandali, agad ring bibitawan.
Aalis, lalayo, tatakbo tila huwad na pangako,
Lahat ay mapanlinlang, pawang sandalian.

Ngunit ikaw lamang ang may kulay na totoo.
Buhok ay ginto, liwanag ay sinasalo,
na kahit kailan, sa bintanang ito’y hindi ko matamo.
‘Di kumukupas, ‘di gaya ng aking kapalaran.
Laging may ngiti, walang hangganan.
Hindi nagbabago, hindi ako iiwanan.

Batid kong hindi ka totoo,
ako ang humubog sa iyong anyo.
Sa matang may araw na nakatago,
sa kumpas ng pinsel, pangarap ay binuo,
mga nais na 'di ko matamo.
Hindi ka nilikha bilang alaala,
kundi kanlungan, mundo, aking pahinga—
mundong 'di na muling tutulo ang luha.

Ngunit sabihin mo, nais kong makaunawa,
kung ako ang lumikha, bakit ikaw ang may awa?
Hinahaplos ang mukha kahit alam kong pinta.
Magaspang na tela, sa palad ko’y bisita.
Sa dampi ng kamay, lamig ang nadarama,
ngunit sa dibdib ko’y init ang nagbabaga.
Nakatayo ako sa pagitan ng dalawang hiwaga,
isang kumukupas, at isang nag-aalab na diwa.

Minsang napapaisip, aking katanungan,
Gaano ba kaganda sa lugar na iyong ginagalawan?
Wala bang hagulgol, walang sakit na dumarapo?
Wala bang gabing sakal ng kalungkutan?
Wala bang pangakong napapako’t gumuguho?
Sabihin mo, may puwang ba riyan ang tulad ko?
Para sa pusong pagod na sa kapalaran,
Kaluluwang sa dilim, sawa nang makipagbuno?

Pagod na ako rito, mundo'y nais nang lisanin,
kamay ko’y iaabot sa langit mong bituin.
Kung ang pagitang ito’y kayang maglaho,
Isang hiwa sa lienzo ang tanging pagsamo.
Doon ako tatawid, ‘di na hihinto.
Harang na kay nipis, ngunit kay layo.

Subalit nananatili kang payapa’t taimtim,
walang kibo, damdamin ay malalim.
Kaya kita mahal, sa puso’y kimkim.
‘Di ka sumasagot, walang sakit na tanim.
Sa tuwing titingin, ika’y sasambitin,
kulay sa daliri, tila ako’y aangkinin.
Sabihin mo, kung ako man ay mawala,
May kulay ba sa piling mo, o tanging alaala?
Mananatili bang aninag, o isang likha
sa mundong ako mismo ang may-akda?

Baka balang araw, silya’y lisanin na.
Ang hawak kong pinsel, tuluyang ibaba.
Sa payapang tabi mo, ako’y hihiga,
at sa wakas, pahinga’y madarama.
Ngunit tila imposible, itong aking adhika,
Mundo ko't mundo mo'y sadyang magkaiba.
Hanggang sa muli, sa ating pagkikita,
Hintayin mo ako,
Aking sinta.

Ace of Herald: The Literary Desk of PnC's The Herald

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