Manila's bustle is the lullaby
for the vagabond.
Unrest makes droopy heads
careen like ships at anchor;
to where they sail,
I do not know.
While thoughts of concern
and unwanted worry
prove the fear of the vagabond,
diligence is what best defines
the vagabond.
Slums in the the metro sing
songs that no man's ears
can catch.
Their songs flutter around
like butterflies—no, moths—
bound for the lamplight, maybe?
The vagabond strut as if void
of all trouble;
the vagabond answer back
to distress calls by hope.
Over time green eats ruins
and pastures are reset.
Many are shaken by
the agony of the vagabond
but what many do not see
are their hallelujahs when
the many are asleep and
they are awake.
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