If You Want to Know What We Are            by Carlos Bulosan If you want to know what we are who inhabit forest mountain rivershore, who harness beast, living steel, martial music (that classless language of the heart), who celebrate labour, wisdom of the mind, peace of the blood; If you want to know what we are who become animate at the rain’s metallic ring, the stone’s accumulated strength, who tremble in the wind’s blossoming (that enervates earth’s potentialities), who stir just as flowers unfold to the sun; If you want to know what we are who grow powerful and deathless in countless counterparts, each part pregnant with hope, each hope supreme, each supremacy classless, each classlessness nourished by unlimited splendor of comradeship; We are multitudes the world over, millions everywhere; in violent factories, sordid tenements, crowded cities; in skies and seas and rivers, in lands everywhere; our number increase as the wide world revolves and increases arrogance, hunger disease and death. We are the men and women reading books, searching in the pages of history for the lost word, the key to the mystery of living peace, imperishable joy; we are factory hands field hands mill hand everywhere, molding creating building structures, forging ahead, Reaching for the future, nourished in the heart; we are doctors scientists chemists discovering, eliminating disease and hunger and antagonisms; we are soldiers navy-men citizens guarding the imperishable will of man to live in grandeur, We are the living dream of dead men everywhere, the unquenchable truth that class-memories create to stagger the infamous world with prophecies of unlimited happiness_a deathless humanity; we are the living and the dead men everywhere…. If you want to know what we are, observe the bloody club smashing heads, the bayonet penetrating hallowed breasts, giving no mercy; watch the bullet crashing upon armorless citizens; look at the tear-gas choking the weakened lung. If you want to know what we are, see the lynch trees blossoming, the hysterical mob rioting; remember the prisoner beaten by detectives to confess a crime he did not commit because he was honest, and who stood alone before a rabid jury of ten men, And who was sentenced to hang by a judge whose bourgeois arrogance betrayed the office he claimed his own; name the marked man, the violator of secrets; observe the banker, the gangster, the mobsters who kill and go free; We are the sufferers who suffer for natural love of man for man, who commemorate the humanities of every man; we are the toilers who toil to make the starved earth a place of abundance who transform abundance into deathless fragrance. We are the desires of anonymous men everywhere, who impregnate the wide earth’s lustrous wealth with a gleaming fluorescence; we are the new thoughts and the new foundations, the new verdure of the mind; we are the new hope new joy life everywhere. We are the vision and the star, the quietus of pain; we are the terminals of inquisition, the hiatuses of a new crusade; we are the subterranean subways of suffering; we are the will of dignities; we are the living testament of a flowering race. If you want to know what we are WE ARE REVOLUTION!

LAST SATURDAY'S PERFORMANCES

They swayed to the rhythm...
They moved as wonderfully as the flamingos...
They performed their craft so well...
And i had goose bumps all over.

This is what they have done to me yesterday as i watched them doing their performances for the Practicum that i have set for them a month or so ago. Fearing that they might fail the subject, they have done their best, and what a sight that i did not expect!

My students awed me so much, as well as the adjudicators nearly rose to their feet with glee and with clear manifestation that they have not just wasted their precious time watch 12 competing teams, vying for the much-coveted prize of Best Performers Award of Excellence. I, too, was impressed. And why not, as a lover of the arts, and dance, my students did not just performed because it was a requirement for the subject, but they performed because they liked to perform and showcase their talent in dancing and interpreting. And I salute them for that.

Learning is fun, that I always reiterated to them. I like them, my students, future mentors and future accountants, to always remember that one time in their stay at the University, they had shared their talents, and their communication skill thru dance, interpreting songs of life and love, building camaraderie, not only for their own co-department, but also for the students of the university as a whole. And glad to achieve mu goal, I gave them my two thumbs up.

One might ask me, why dance? Why not some thing that is quite related to speaking and debate? My answer is very simple, dance is a  medium where you can express your feelings and emotions so artfully. And that thru dance, one can give his/her creative contribution for the betterment of the team. Team building is what they created, They have achieved it.

To the winners, congratulations. To those who did not make it....it is not winning but participating which is important in every endeavors. You are all winners! In my mind and in my heart...yes, you are.

THE HOMECOMING

    He has been like that for almost a week, 5 days to be exact. Somber. Nostalgic. Constantly looking at the windows. As if waiting for a person to come over and visit him. As if enjoying the scenery… but his eyes stare blankly… so deep in thoughts…in his thoughts.

            “He’s coming home… I know”, he said to himself, whispering words nobody cared to understand anyway. “I know…”, and then he stands by the window, glancing at the infiniteness. For it is night now and the stars started to appear way up high. And he sighs.

            “Uncle wake up. It’s late… remember that you still have an appointment with Uncle John this morning”, I gently said to him, in a voice just enough not to rouse him. He’s my dear Uncle James. Not my uncle anyway. No relation at all. Am just an adopted kid who came from nowhere. I don’t even know who my parents were. I don’t care anyway. Uncle James had been my family since time immemorial. Now I am already pursuing my AB at the State University, on my last year in fact.

 “What time is it?”, he asked gently, his eyes half opened, half shut. He begins to scratch them, as if itchy. Maybe due to the glaring sunlight that penetrated the curtains that covers his French windows.

Looking at my watch, a gift given by him when I entered college, I said it was already 30 minutes past six in the morning and I added that the breakfast had been set by Manang, ready to be gorged up by the hungry mammals.

“Gosh, I must been tired last night. Damn paper works”, said he as he moved to fix his bed. His pajamas crumpled, hair has been like a hen’s nest. An ugly sight to behold.

“Go to the bathroom Uncle. I will just be the one to fix your bed. Take a bath. Fix yourself and then we’ll go down to eat breakfast. Don’t be too sluggish old man,” we both laughed. Actually he’s not yet that old. He was just in his mid-20’s when I came to his life. Lola Andrea, his mother, was a social worker, when they have adopted me. They said that I was left by woman whom they don’t know, at the gate. A classic orphan story, I thought. When Uncle James was promoted as a full professor at the State University (at an unprecedented age of 27!), the adoption paper had been signed formally. I was just 3 years old then. Lola Andrea died eventually after 2 years and Uncle, together with Manang, took turns in taking care of me. Uncle James had become my father.

Uncle went to the bathroom in his room and I heard the shower opened. I started fixing his unkempt bed. It was not so hard for me to fix it. His room was clean. Extraordinary for a bachelor’s room. Clean to the very inch of it. The house, our house,  his mana from Lola Andrea, was of Spanish architecture. One of the oldest in town. Uncle’s bedroom, on the second floor, has a terrace that overlooks a sprawling garden, well-sculptured and landscaped, and an oval-shaped swimming pool. A living witness to the so-many merriments the old folks had held when they are still alive. Lolo Tiago, a haciendero, had always loved nature. Being the owner of a hundreds of hectares of coconut plantation in Batangas, he had transformed the business into an ‘empire’ which Uncle was the sole heir. Above the headboard of his huge bed is the portrait of his beloved wife. Beautiful beyond words. Stunning. Alluring. Imposing. I always asked Uncle James when I was still young about her but he forbids me, and I always see the pain in his eyes whenever I ask. From then on, I didn’t ask the question. Never attempted to ask.

When I was through fixing his bed, I went down stairs. Went ahead to the grand piano near the foot of the stairs and popped open the lids, just to exercise my fingers, I thought. The same routine that I do every day of my life. The house suddenly turned in to concert hall every time I play. I was always so passionate about music, be it jazz or the music of the masters. I started tinkering at first, getting acquainted with the keys, to warm my fingers up. I played the etudes of Chopin, and when I had already the rhythm, I played his Revolutionary. Halfway in the composition is like a tormenting and stormy cadenza and I seemed to have mercurian fingers swift-shifting from one finger to the other. The lower keys to my left seemed like a tune of another brewing storm perhaps, or a tornado, or as the title has it, a coup d’ etat. Storm that is ready to shatter lives. A coup of revolutionary notes. When the music was over, I was it seemed on the ecstasy. I didn’t notice Uncle coming down from the stair, clapping.

“Bravo! Bravo!,” went Uncle’s words. “What’s the encore?,” he asked me.

I was so ashamed, although his praises made me in a swell-headed ecstasy, and somehow, praise coming from him, a critic that he was, respected at his own field, made me long for more. As if I was in cloud nine. In a dreamland. “What about the Flight of the Bumblebee?,” I said.

“The great Bard hath saith before ‘If music be the food of the soul, play on’, or the soup will get colder”, and he made a heartfelt laugh which I haven’t heard for probably decades.

While I was playing the music which I gleefully committed from my mind, I was deeply observing Uncle James. Although the laughter he had been soulful and hearty, there is still that look of loneliness in his eyes. Must be his age? Must it be someone from the past? Or something? I know for sure that Uncle was already an accomplished man. He has given lectures all over the world. Just recently, he went to University of Hawaii to deliver his contention on the life and works of Shakespeare viewed on Marxist approach. He became a national sensation because the Inquirer had given him a page one Sunday and he was honored to be given a dinner with the President of the Philippines no less. I was so proud of him. But where did his loneliness come from? I was awakened with my thought when Uncle tapped my shoulders. He gave me a hug and said that I was too good and someday, I will be performing at the Carnegie Hall with the New York Symphony no less. Of course, I shied the thoughts away. It was my ultimate dream though.

“Do you think we are late for your appointment Uncle?,” I asked him animatedly. He was already dressed in tattered jeans and checkered polo. He looked like a teenager. It was a rainy Saturday and we don’t have classes to attend to.

“Let your Uncle John wait. We still have plenty of time though. Why rush,” he said softly. Uncle’s voice was always that soothing. Magical. Whimsical. No wonder his students at the University like him so much that all his course are well-attended. He was really a crowd drawer.

“What’s the business with Uncle John ba Uncle?”, I asked.

“Nothing. Just personal matters I suppose,” he said.

“Okay then”. I need not ask more. “Aren’t we going to have a bite before we go?”, as I stood from the stool in front of the grand and held my Uncle’s shoulders and went to the 12-seater dining table, huge for just the two of us.

There is always a striking resemblance in us. Tall, muscular, aquiline nose, the manner we walk, which, people kept on noticing those features. Some say that we looked like brothers. Some say that we are like father and son. I have to laugh at the second thought. I tried to explain them that we are not related with each other. My story is an open book at the University. And people knew that I was just an adopted son since birth by Uncle’s family and aside form that, no more details came out.

“How is your studies Carlo?”, he asked me while mixing his coffee.

“It’s just okay Uncle. Prof. de la Rosa kept on pressing me to audition for the NAMCYA, you know, the festival for the musician wannabes”.

“And…”

“I told him that I have to tell you first”, I said half-smiling, the grin that says I know that you are going to give the blessing.

“Why not give it a shot then? Your playing is good. Much even better I suppose with Artur?”, he said referring to the great pianist Artur Rubenstein.

I laughed. But somehow it gave me an encouragement to prove my craft. I wanted to be a great musician someday. “You’re kidding Uncle, that’s the greatest joke that I ever heard this morning. Must it be the rain why you gave me the praise I suppose…”

He just looked at me smiling. The smile that I haven’t seen for years. A sweet smile from his lips. He gave me a pat in my hand.

“You can do it. I am giving you my blessing to join. That is for your enhancement kiddo.”

We arrived at Uncle John’s office at the private clinic that his family owns. He is Uncle James cousin and contemporary. Like true brothers, they went to the same school but took different courses. Uncle John finished his medical course while Uncle James pushed through with passion in creative writing (which was being opposed by Lolo Tacio, a doctor himself. He always tells, to discourage Uncle, that there’s no money in writing. Uncle won the case eventually, with Lola’s intervention.)

I was waiting outside the office, the two men inside, I don’t know what they are discussing. It must be a grave matter on the business; well I don’t have the slightest hint. But I thought deep down, must it be Uncle James’s health I should have noticed, he became paler these past few days.

The meeting ended after an hour. Uncle came out of Uncle John’s office. No trace of worry on their faces though. I was relieved. Uncle is so transparent. If he’s angry or he’s sad or happy, he doesn’t hide it from me. But how, he looks radiant and the paleness of him (I supposed to have seen from him) is gone. I must be wrong with my hunch though.

Instead of going home, it is still early in the morning, Uncle decided for us to go to the mall. I agreed. I needed some new socks and some pairs of underwear I said.

Life has always been good for both Uncle James and me. He was promoted to a full professor at the State University and I graduated summa.

I lived in Massachusetts for quite some time. Twenty years. Twenty long years. Leaving Uncle James in that old big house. I was already a naturalized citizen of America. Brown American as they always say. But in my heart, I am still a Filipino. I often came home to visit Uncle every now and then, but due to the very hectic and exhaustive work, I faltered. I was the resident pianist at Tanglewood. I held concerts here and there; the world had been my concert stage. I played so many times at the Carnegie Hall, the Royal Albert Hall in London with the Royal Symphony. In Germany, even in Pretoria for the AIDS victims. Most recently, I was awarded the Grammy for the best classical artist. But despite of the laurels that I was receiving, I longed, still longed for home. Uncle and I constantly exchanged letter. He was wired-up so to speak. I send him my latest pictures and the recordings that I made. He didn’t send me one however. He told me that it must be nice to see him personally that just in pictures. That made me long to see him. I miss him so much. I just can’t forget his face the last time I saw him. Pale. Somber. Nostalgic. But tranquil. He must be so proud of me the way that I had been so proud of him. The once vigorous and robust Uncle James that I know of… now has been eaten by age. How fast time flies. Suddenly it seems that I am visualizing another person from another time. I must go home.

It was my winter break at Tanglewood. An up and coming concert pianist from Japan would replace me for a while I am on vacation. The press wrote important news accounts for me. Touching.

“Ladies and gentlemen… let us give a warm applause to….”

I heard my name. I was in front of the audience. Was it… the CCP? With the Philharmonic? I was doing a Tchaikovsky Suite. Applause. A long standing ovation. But where’s Uncle…. I thought.

“Welcome home, Carlo”, a voice so familiar came to my ears still soothing.

“Uncle James…”, tears welling my eyes as I gave him a long embrace.

“Welcome home, my son”, he told me. “Look at them…”

“I was so touched by the gesture, Uncle… I owe them much to you.”

“You yourself made it until here son… You worked hard for it”.

We stood, man to man for quite some time, I couldn’t imagine the man who nurtured me, took care of me, looked so pale and old.

“What happened Uncle?”

“Meaning…?”

“Look at yourself”.

“Ahh… Time is ticking so fast boy”. He said with a sad look.

“Kalabaw lang ang tumatanda!”, I tried to laugh it off.

“Human beings, too Carlo”, he soft-spokenly said.

“By the way, are we not going to the reception?”

“Let us go then… and you’ll drive.”

The reception was held at the great hall of the Manila Hotel with no less than the President of the Philippines as the guest of honor. I was deeply honored at the thought that the Filipino people are really that so proud of me. A homecoming really.  A homecoming. It was finished by twelve midnight. Uncle asked where I will be spending the night. I told him that the reception committee had booked me in advance at the hotel but I told him that I am going to stay at the old house, with my Uncle. He beamed. A look of satisfaction was seen on his face, his now-wrinkled face.

“Do I have apos already, Carlo?”, he asked me.

“Non at all eh. I was so busy engrossed with my career and I forgot about them, Uncle.” I told him with a laugh.

“Time is running by so fast, you should hurry. As the joke goes, you might be running off with a jet plane.” He said good-humoredly.

“I might not hear their laughter nor, watch them come out of this world and grow”, he continued.

“You are not going pa naman eh”, I stubbornly said to him.

“Who knows, maybe not now. Maybe later. Who knows really? Life is so full of surprises. It is magical. Mysterious. Now you have…” he paused, “then you don’t…”

“Ahem, you are getting sentimental old man”.

He just gives me a sigh.

“You must have missed my kakulitan Uncle. Why haven’t you got married by the way? I have asked you a million times over before but you were so hard-headed, you did not heed to my advice.”

I was talking like an old man now, as we headed home.

“I had only one love. My immortal love and that suffices. And besides…”, he stopped for a while, “…there is you and you are enough inspiration for me to go on”.

“And live…”, he continued, teary eyed as I gazed at him.

“Thank you so much Uncle. You just don’t know that I owe so much from you. I could have not reached the apex of my career if you were not the one who took care of me.”

“Now, you are the one who’s sentimental.” He laughed. The crisp laugh of my Uncle James returned. Was it because I came home? Was it because of me?

Along the way, we talked so much. About my life back in the United States. Whom I had been dating? And so on. I asked him what’s new with my old Uncle. He said nothing has changed except that his black hair now turned to grey, which suited him so much. Just the pale look in his aura worried him.

Now a new happiness came to his face. A little gladness once more. And I was happy with the thought.

I woke up early the following day. It was a Saturday, and Uncle is going to his perennial visit to Uncle John. I decided not to wake him up. It is still early. I went out and looked around. The house has not changed a bit. The grand is still placed there. Shining black. Dusted each day by the maids. I peeped at the garden. The plants and the Bermuda were all well-trimmed. I took a deep breath of the dewy air. Smelled so sweet, now I am balk to my roots. To where I was born. To where I was alive. Uncle must have prepared for my homecoming after all, I thought.

I sat down to the stool in front of the grand. Tinkered the keys. They still sound good. The sound brought me back to my younger years when my piano tutor would say that he doesn’t have any lesson for me because I knew the lessons already. I started playing a Chopin, Fantaisie Impromptu. Then some etudes. And there was the familiar clap clap clap descending the stairs. It was Uncle.

“Hear ye, hear ye…. A world class artist had arrived…”

“Uncle, don’t give me those praises again. Or I might get used to them. I am still your little boy Carlo, remember?”

“Well, thank you for coming back son.”

“Thank you so much, Uncle. Shall we go to Uncle John’s?”

“Let’s.”

I don’t know what transpired in their talk but somehow it already bothered me. I asked Uncle James when he got home and he said nothing. I began to notice his paleness once again. During daytime, I watched his sitting alone and somber beside the window, looking at the infiniteness. He has retired from teaching at the University and has been spending his time, if not talking with me, looking at the window, in deep thought. What might be he’s thinking? Does he suffer from illness that I don’t know of? I once asked Uncle John about Uncle James’s condition but he said, there’s nothing wrong with the man. Should I be angry with him that he hides me important matters? I respected their silence.

The morning was intensely cold. January morning. I could not sleep the night before. As if something’s bothering meI and I couldn’t discern what is it. Uncle must have been deep in sleep. Old men were by the way.

Nine o’clock. Still no Uncle coming out from his room. I decided to enter and wake him up but I thought he must be tired the whole evening.

Ten o’clock. Still no Uncle coming out. I went to his room. Softly knocked at the door. He must be at the shower taking his morning bath. I entered. The old man is sleeping still. But wait…

“Uncle…”

No reply.

“Uncle…” I repeated.

Still no reply and I uttered a subdued sob. I noticed an envelop on his side. Opened it. A letter came out, freshly written. It was by him, because I noticed the stroke. The letter reads:

Dear Carlo,

            You have come back home my Son. My true

            Son. My only son. The son that I have kept for such a

long time. I am your father. You ARE MY SON.

Forgive me for keeping this secret to you.

                                                            Papa.

            “Hello, Uncle John….”

-Mario G. Barlolong

MY MOTHER....

My Thoughts For The Day

Today is the birthday of my mother, and I would like to say happy birthday to the only woman I had ever loved... I just hope she could hear these words.

I always remember her as the simple one. She was full of sacrifice, full of hardships, and yet she never complains. I never heard her say her monologues, I mean, I never heard her telling her woes to us, her kids: against the simple life that we have had before, against every facets and realities of harsh life that we have had known. Still she remained calm, giving us the daily nutrition, not just for food that nourishes our bodies but food for thoughts for our soul.

I always remember her as a religious woman, a prayerful lady. A woman who sang Ave Maria on a high pitch, or the Salve Regina singing it to me like a lullaby. dozing me to sleep, for I don't know yet, as a child, the essence of the song. The song keeps on ringing to my ears up until now, it never faded. I always remember too when she and father sings their favorite song No Other Love. One of the sweetest songs I ever heard, the notes seem not to fade until now too.

I always remember her angelic smile, and her contagious laughters. I always remember her patiently sewing clothes for our keep. I always remember her not getting angry to us. I always remember her chicken tinola, which me, as the youngest in the family, would she give the best parts of the chicken.

Suddenly though, when father died, it is as if she died too with him. Her memory regressed. And when I come back home from a five year work abroad, she never recognized me as her son. Although, way back in my workplace, I always call her, and remind her that her youngest is still alive and well, loved her so much. Suddenly, I found myself crying. Where is she? Where is my Nanay now? Why has time taken the most important person in my life? Why did time rob my mother from me?

I don't know where will I get the answers to my queries. But I have to make a start to win her back, and know that I am at her midst. Patiently, i took care of her, singing her favorite songs. And there are times, say in just less than ten minutes, the lucidity of her toughts come back and she recognizes me already, and those were the few minutes that I am happy, contented that at last she comes back to her senses. But the rest of 24 hour grace periods, I am a nobody to her.

There are so many things that I remember in her. I always bite her ears when I make lambing to her, Or smell her armpit. Or embrace her so tight. How I missed her terribly! How I missed her....

Happy birthday Nanay. I hope you could see your son, crying because he misses you so much, while encpding tis mesage on this blog. I hope that you still could see me on my downest moment, and on every triumph that i have and will have. I hope to see you, and Tatay, and Manang Carling, soon.....

Soon...

WHY PRINCEKULAS?

Why Princekulas?

There are so many questions why am I using this alias?Some of my friends at the social network Facebook often ask me the same question over and over again, and I would answer them the same thing over and over again. Why the name Princekulas?

It has been olenty of years ago when, way back to my former working place in Al-Qassim, Saudi Arabia, that I have met plenty of friends, whom, I have been in contact until these recent years. It is quite a simple notion that I was so amazed with the name Nicholas, somehow it just come into my idle mind, I am doing anything that time (but I am sitting at the shop), looking at the things that we are selling, and thinking of the next customer to come in and look for our goods. Suddenly, the name Kulas came into my mind, out of nowhere. And all the while I thought, yeah, I will be better off that way. Kulas seemed to be and exotic name. Kulas... male form. Kulasisi... female form. I might as well have that. So i thought a little bit deeper.

Why the prefix Prince? I was not born a royalty to be called such a title. I was born not on a silver platter, for actually why did I become an expatriate working in a foreign land if I had all the means to live? Prince is such a noble title... and why should I not? And when the time that I came back home for good, I used the name Prince, in honor of the royalties way back in Saudi Arabia, and the Kulas, well, to describe the simple person in me.

I always make sure that I am still the simple person like the way I had been 40 years ago. I was born a simple life, raised in simplicity, without the cravings for the things that in return I could not have. All I had are just simple cravings, nothing more, nothing else. Foods that are just sold on the streets, no fine dining please unless otherwise that I was invited to have one.

I am always the simple man with dignity. I might not be a royalty, but still I am. we all have the capacity to become a royal- with dignity, with poise, observing the etiquette. Some people were born with a silver spoon and yet they don't have the respect of some members of the society. Needless to say, that some people were born out of corruption. I am proud to say that I was neither of the two. It is the same me. The ME that I used to be. The alias may have been royalty-sounding like thing, but hey... I AM SIMPLE, HONORABLE, PROUD AND DIGNIFIED.

ANTONG: THOUGHTS

see the happy faces? never once during the trip complained, oh it's so far, let go back to ground zero. everyone is excited as i am... tho' it's ohh-so-forsakenly-hot, still we moved on... just to reach our goal and destination... in life we complain, why and why at all times... hardly we notice that as we go on our way, we grow and mature... that when we turn back and do the descent without completing the ascent, we lose... we will never know what is in store for us there... at the top

going up is the real challenge. there are lots of stones, and boulders along the way. the road is rough, and the heat is scorching. but when you get there at the top, there is the essence of fulifillment and you could say, YES I MADE IT.... you can enjoy the pristine and serene scenery, you can gorge on the cool wat...er and dip yourself to its soothing embrace.... such also is life... such is our trip to 

Antong

on the way to the top, i had a cut on my feet, but i still have to go on and on and on... as far as my feet leads me... climbing the stones is an addiction that i can't let go... just like my addiction to coffee and friendship... it's hard to let go, let someone go... especially when you have found serenity... like Antong...

many years have come and gone, but then i kept on going back to you/ are you the one destined for me, you just say so/ love might be blind but i saw the beauty in you/ too bad when LOVE has finally come, yet i couldn't have you....

i will always return to the love we once shared/ those were the happiest moments this lifetime has made/ but then as time goes on spinning to a speed/ the distance between me and you seems to just fade/

you are the beauty unnoticed once, but now prominent/ you hold the coldness that is so permanent/ you might fade away but only time will tell/ when tha time comes to fore, be there, i will...

...would you rather stay silent, not to sing with glee?/ singing the songs of forgotten melody/ i have listened to your songs, and the rasping of the leaves/ makes me wonder why God has given you the voice as sweet as this/

at last, i have found you once again in your nest/ the love affair that we once had would never rest/ would you still accept me if ever i propose?/ or dump me at your own dispose?/
love never fades in me, and so i know/ that only time and distance made it so/ love is still strong, love is still here/ i will shout it to the world for all i care/