Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

Unrequited

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~

I understand the books in the shelf,

Untouched. Covers gathering dusts

Pages turn yellow, words unread,

Wisdom unhearkened.

Banquet prepared by writers

Wasted to termites

Leaving disinterested heads unfed,

Hearts failed, voices neglected.

I understand the bud in the wild

That awakens at dawn,

But nobody drops a visit til midday,

Not a single butterfly, not a bee,

And wilts unnoticed at the end of day.

.

I understand the tree along the river

Bearing fruits all summer;

Realease sweet odor filling the air

Inviting reapers, but nobody came.

Fruits dropping in the stream like tears,

Wasting her gifts again this year.

.

I understand the green patch of meadow

Hedged by dense forests, bordered by a cliff

Pruned by gazelles and deers

Year after year,

But nobody ever arrives with a mat to picnic;

Not a single soul carrying an easel reaches to paint.

Picturesque view wasted in the wilds.

.

I understand the sea-shells stranded

In a far-flung coast, unfrequented,

That the surf polish

And washed white by the brines

But no one comes to pick them for souvenir.

Encapsuled songs of the ocean

No one hears.

.

I understand the fate of weeds that grow

In the unwanted crevices

Of the concrete pavements of the city,

Sprouting to embellish her flaws

Cruelly treated, uprooted, tossed.

Seemingly, life undeserved.

.

I understand the child begging for mercy

Strayed in the maze of life

Without the guidance of a father.

Growing without a map to follow

With promising tomorrow to give,

But dreams wasted on vagabond.

.

I feel for the logs decaying in the forests;

Treasures lost in the ocean;

Shipwrecks forming rusts in the harbor.

I feel sorry for a bench

That awaits in the park

Comes sunshine or rain.

Unanswered beaconing of the church bells.

Pews empty on sundays.

Envelopes not opened,

Letters left unread, unanswered.

.

I understand the purity of intentions,

Unrequited.

“Unrquited” 11.5×16.5 pencil, pen and ink on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2011

I feel for every little things

With so much to offer,

But are never given the chance.

A gift, declined.

Would somebody ever pick up

My heart’s calls?

 ~

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