The morning walk from area 17 to the college of liberal arts, by Francisco Arcellana (1916-2002)

The morning walk from area 17 to the college of liberal arts

by Francisco Arcellana (1916-2002)

The faithful hounds, his ranging eyes, too early probe
the lonely morning macadam empty for the sight of her.

She comes upon the startled pavement in pa vane:
cool early morning doesn’t come until she comes.
The sun is clear, open only as her given eyes.

The faithful hounds, his eyes, are roused at her approach
and with her passage roil the air with flurried cries.
The faithful hounds, his eyes rise and follow after.

She doesn’t need to speak to say the silent speech.
She nods and her eyes smile: her cool unspeaking lips
soundlessly articulate the quiet words Good morning.
Indeed in deed it is morning: sure enough it is day.

She walks – she grinds beneath him even as she walks:
how his heart rocks with the singing of her hips
how his heart reels with the sighing of her feet.

The green sea burning parts before her plowing legs.
The clay path writhes in furious brown beneath her heels.
The subtle snake, recalled, uncoils and forward creeps
to meet her warm, unknowing eyes: confounder of the cold –
rout the slinker back into the brush, the original slime
leaving the clear, clean day unsullied for her sake,
the cooler early morning that her moving makes.