Moving on

By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

MOVE on. A mantra that should set one free. That’s what is expected of women who are strong, capable, independent, intelligent and possessing other unique qualities. Move on, it is the right thing to do.

Right, and I am moving on. And so are most others. It is a reality, in one’s heart and soul, that when one finds something truly beautiful, the quality of its beauty becomes part of one’s essence and never leaves, and moving on is possible, but only with it.

INARO  (Pakanunutan ed sika)

Immakar lay panaon, wadia ka ni, ed deen na nunot ko tan inagew-agew kon bilay
Narerengel ta ka ed cancion na pusok, undedengelak ed sika ed panaon
ya undedengelak ed anlong na kamarerwak

Naliliknak su ingas mo ed beneg na layag ko,
kabektan i-esaes moý ni-iter tan pakna na kabuasan
ya singa katua-an na tawen, tan katua-an na impiyerno

Nayarin isulat koý liknaan ko, balet agto nibagan amin su naliliknak
Nayarin istoryaen koy bilay mo, balet say istorya ikutkut toý bilay
anggano maong ni su pinanbilay
Anggapoy salitan nayarin mangitaker ed sika, anggano say istoryam ni.

Nilinguan na panaon iramay arum ya pakanunutan
tan say nunot  ko akalinguan ed kadakel na pakanunutan
ya angikutkut ed pakanunutan ed sika

Diad bengat lan pakalinguan, bebenbenan koý atilak ed sika
pakanunutan ya nu arum agla nanunutan, balet wadya ni.

Nayarin siak su atilak ed sika.

 

 

BELOVED  (My Memory of you)

Many years have passed, and you are still here,
in the quiet of my mind, in the ordinariness  of my daily life.

I hear you in the music of my heart, and I listen to you,
each time I listen to the poetry in my soul.

I can feel your breath beneath my ears,
as you whisper the day’s promise, and the certainty of tomorrow
like the certainty of heaven, and even hell.

I can write about how I feel, but it will never be as I really feel.
I can share your story, but telling entombs life, even when well-lived.
No words can bind you, not even your own story.

Time has blurred some of the memories, and my memory over time,
lost itself in the many memories that buried my memories of you.

In this inevitable forgetting I hold on, to what’s left of you
a memory half-remembered, but  fully present.

Maybe i am what’s left of you.

 

(For your comments and reactions, please email to: punch.sunday@gmail.com)

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