WHAT OUGHT I WRITE AGAIN?
What ought I write again
On this blank page in front of me?
Blank is my mind as a clear
Tabularasa: empty is the world, a dot
On its circumscribed face
Without an iota of an image
On its being.
Fertile is the night.
Cockroaches dance gaily to proclaim
So. What now would preoccupy
Frigid is the pen. It cannot roll on
To herald the hymns and notes
Fervently brewing deep in the vats
Of my inner space: thoughts have receded
Without the usual romance with the pen.
[Writ. 27 May 91, Cubao, Quezon City, M.Manila]