Act I: The Field That No Longer Sprouts

The winds of time blow, bringing news of a field that no longer sprouts

Once a place where dreamers planted meaning in the soil of language

Now only rows of cogon grass whistle because of silence

The bubbling of thought is no longer heard from the furnace of the inner self

All that remains is the clownish song of mask sellers who know no shame.

In a place once known as a studio of reason and feeling

Now filled with wanderers selling mirror reflections

The mirror is not for seeing, but for selling oneself

They scream in the silent market, selling empty laughter

Scattering colors that cannot ignite light within the chest

“What is the use of eyes, if they do not want to see deeply?”

Whispered the old tree that once sheltered the mind

 

Act II: Amidst the Banquet of Uninvited Guests

Behold, the guests come without cards

Entering the courtyard of virtue, seated at the altar of the soul

They serve a concoction of words without taste

Foreign dishes that satisfy emptiness

Children of this age no longer eat from their mother’s spoon

They are force-fed fog, nursed with dust

Their faces shine with a false luster

But their chests are empty, shameless

At the edge of the guest room, the Host muses in silence

He cannot refuse the influx of guests knocking

But he knows in his silence

That not all are worthy to be given a seat at the table of value

He holds a fine sieve of ancient wisdom

That can only be used by hands scarred by wounds

 

Act III: The Flame Hidden in the Ashes

Do you still remember the wooden hut on the hill of consciousness?

Where poets once lit lanterns through flowing verse

Where the wind whispered in the language of conscience

And silent birds delivered news from the high sky

Now, the hut is just ruins

Yet from the crack in the ashes, there is charcoal that has not gone out

The ember is hidden by those who do not submit

Who write on stone, not on dust

Who choose to be a well, not a fountain

Who flow swiftly only to quench the thirst of shadows

They are keepers of the night, guardians of light that does not need spotlight

Not those who chase the glitter in the eyes of others

But those who weave meaning in the darkness

So that tomorrow, when dawn comes

Humans do not wake as Machines

But return to beings who remember why they were given heart and feeling

Epilogue:

This song is not a lament

But a bell that sings amidst the long sleep of the inner nation

Not to condemn the times

But to realize that the lamp still exists

Even if it is small, hidden, and often deemed useless