Bagwis Literary Issue 2ND SEM A.Y. 2022-2023

Aubrey Maye Arrieta Editor-in-Chief, Opinion Editor

Herkurt Tamba Associate Editor, Editorial Writer

John Zhidrik Galon Managing Editor, Feature Writer

Jefferson Quipit Circulation Manager, Feature Writer

Alex Tumagantang News Editor

Realee Gabarra Feature Editor

Johnrey Rollo Sports Editor

Louise Gabrielle Abing Head Cartoonist

Kenneth Jay Ramping Layout Director

Dianne Grace Jimenez Photojournalism Editor

Clarenz Jude Caballero Head Videographer

Rhoda May Ebad News Writer

Leonard Tucjayao Editorial Writer

Khate Catherine B. Asuncion

Kimbian Lim Sports Writers

Sharif Ryan Beldia Cartoonist

Kevin Asombrado

John Mark Polistico Layout Artists

John Mark Bedayo

Bai Alleynore Kalim

Krishtine Rivera Photojournalists

Krizza Mae R. Maningding

Gwyneth Ericca Lubaton

Miles Jester Uchi

Rayner Ginno Paches

Videographers

TRAINEES

Maria Nicole P. Silva

Mark Joel P. Negro

Lynxter Leano

Mia Dorothy Marcos

Ronajean Lavado

Niel Zsun John S. Vega

Berjan Pagadatan

Lyle Jome Dela Madrid

Kevin C. Asombrado

John Ross T. Sambanan

Adrian A. Joven

Hidden Manna S. Avila

Katrina B. Elises

Ashley Louisa Loyloy

Rhynchielyne G. Melgar

Louise Martin Jordan

Tycoon James Flores

Krisczer Dave David

Engr. Steve Anthony Lim

Jibran Tomindug, CPA Advisers

Editor’s Note

In light of the month-long celebration of the National Literary Pieces, we bring you this semester the literary portfolio encompassing the literary works originally penned by the university students as well as some of our feature writers.

Sip your aromatic coffee and indulge while navigating through each page!

About the Cover

This portfolio’s cover featured the entry of one of our cartoonists, Louise Abing, to the 2022 Pilipinas Shell’s National Students Art Competition (NSAC) at Makati City, which paints silver in the said tilt. The art highlighted the youth’s prowess to strengthen the thought art as their shield and sword. It illustrates how modern art and technology have collaborated in a variety of ways. The unification of one’s minds, amplification of creativity, and creating masterpiece, symbolize compassion and camaraderie among the young populace. A statue of hope is scribbled, implying a great avenue for a better, if not, best tomorrow.

DOCILE GEMS AND THEIR SECRETS

Mia Dorothy

“Dain, are you up for it?”

He has plans later and yet he is hesitant. Claudia looked at him with genuine excitement, despite it being their second time interacting within the semester.

Right. She’s asking for him, oddly yet specifically him, to join her along on a museum work.

“It won’t take long! Please?” Claudia clasps both of her hands together in attempt to show plea. Dain begrudgingly accepts the offer.

Illustration by Lyle Jome Dela Mardid

She gleams. “Oh, thank you! I thought for sure you’ll be busy like usual.”

He scoffed. He does have plans.

He’ll deal with it later.

Afternoon came and a certain painting catches his eye. Dain approached it with hands in his pocket, seemingly enticed in this specific artwork displayed in front of him. He then continued observing the line of paintings, watching details of it intently.

A gasp was the one to break his attention away from it. Followed by a small squeal, he looked right to see an approaching Claudia. She gave him a side hug, to which he just patted his hand on her shoulder in return. Letting go, she beamed at him once again.

“You came, oh thank you!”

Ah, her energy is infectious. He smiled as a reply.

“It seems I’ve already caught your eye?” She looked at her right, to the paintings.

He raised his eyebrows, following her line of sight. “Yours?”

“Yes! My first opportunity for my works to be displayed!” She walked closer to her works and slides her hand on the canvas corners. “This is going to be here the whole week!”

Dain couldn’t help but be proud beside her. She was a quiet one in class. “Congratulations.”

Claudia took a gander back at him, still with a smile on her face. “Thank you! To show my appreciation of your highly welcoming presence,” his eyebrows furrowed at the sudden formality, and she merely chuckled at the sight. “Dinner is on me! Wait for me after the presentation round, will you?”

Though a man of few words, everyone appreciates free food. Even him. “Alright, I wish you luck.”

She walked back slowly, “I don’t need luck.” With a cheeky grin, she turned around. The echoes of her footsteps faded as the distance between them grew.

After a fair exchange of convos and a wonderful dinner, Claudia placed a box between them.

Dain, after observing said box, peeked back at her. “And

this is?”

She stood up, unwraps, and opens it, to show a circular cake. It spelled out: Happy Birthday Dain! And a little smiley face beside it.

Took him a while to process the scene infront of him. “But we’re…”

“Not close?” She continued, lighting up the candle on the cake. “I’ve known you since you started working at the coffee shop near my home.”

“I’m already assuming you don’t remember.” She chuckled and sat back down. Their eyes met. “I purposely sat next to the counter in hopes of you noticing and remembering me. Sadly, you were too busy.”

She sighed. “One night, before closing, I cried. Not a hard cry but you noticed. I haven’t ordered, and yet you brewed the same order, and sat in front of me. Took your apron off too.”

Dain’s eyes widened as he now remembers the same scene. “…Maris?”

Claudia giggled. “Yes, Claudia Maris.” She then grabbed the paper bag on the floor and placed it on her lap. “I wanted to thank you for the company, as you have today and long before then. I was also ecstatic to know just this year that we were classmates on arts.”

“I kept your little doodle that cheered me up then.” She brought out a sticky note with a doodled dinosaur. “Friends were away, and I was alone, yet you were there.”

Dain looks at the note on her hand and reads it aloud. “I took a job, and I didn’t have the rawrificati-okay that was bad, and you laughed at that?”

Claudia laughed. “Yeah and…yeah.” She handed the note to him. “Your presence meant a lot to me, Dain. I hope to keep this friendship of ours.” She then pulled out a canvas, smaller than those from the exhibit. “If only you’ll have me too.”

He held the canvas to see a painting of cartoon dinosaur, with the same dialogue. Dain looks back at her in awe. Claudia, with a smile, greets him. “I like you, Dain. Happy Birthday.”

Natatanaw na ang Dulo littlewriterofreality

Nasa sulok ng silid na walang mga bintana ni pintuan. Narito ako sa gitna, naghahanap ng labasan ngunit walang makita. Tanging dilim lamang ang aking kasangga sa silid na ito. Paano ako makalalabas? Saan ang mas madali? Lumabas na mayroon pang hininga o wala na? Ito ang pakiramdam ng batang nagsusumamo sa kalinga ng simpleng ina’t ama.

Napakalalim ng gabi, umaalingawngaw ang huni ng mga insektong nasa paligid. Mga panahong nagpapatunay na nag-iisa kang lumalaban sa buhay. Nagbabasa ng mga araling binigay ng mga propesor. Gabing nagpapahiwatig ng iba-ibang kaisipang nagtatanong kung makikita pa ba ang umaga base sa estadong kinaroroonan sa sulok na walang liwanag na natatanaw.

Hindi ko alintana dati ang mga kwentong naririnig mula sa aking mga kaibigan na napakaraming kumitil ng buhay dahil sa mga akademikong gawain. Akala ko noon, madali lang iyan, alam ko naming makakaya ko. Hindi nga ako matalino subalit nag-aaral naman ako. Ito ang mga katagang sinasabi ko sa aking sarili noon. Subalit, kabaliktaran nito ang aking mga nahihinuha sa kasalukuyan. Kasabay ng mga agam-agam ay ang mga tanong kung kailan ang “graduation day” habang ako ay narito sa sulok nagtatanong sa aking sarili kung isa ba ako sa mga gagamit ng maroon na toga. Naghahanap ako ng kalinga ngunit paano. Sanay kasi sila na hindi ako nahihirapan, sanay silang sa bawat araw ay nakikita ang mukhang nagbibigay saya sa kanila... kasiyahang walang problemang iniinda, tanging pagmamahal lamang para sa kanila.

Ang tanging hiling ko lang naman sanay kamustahin ako. Nakakapagod, opo. Nananabik ako sa ilang segundong yakap galing sa inyo, subalit wala akong matanggap. Nariyan nga kayo, ngunit nasaan ang arugang ninanais ko? Alam kong kay raming bayarin dagdag pa ang mga problemang walang araw na hindi dumarating, daragdag pa ba ako? Alam ko sa sarili kong wala akong karapatang magtanong kung bakit ganito ang mga pangyayari sa buhay. Malapit na ang dulo subalit kay hirap maglakad patungo roon. Ang daan ay patuloy na sumisikip dahil sa mga bayarin at mga salitang hindi nagbibigay ng liwanag, datapwa’t ito’y nagpapahiwatig na ikaw ay isang pasanin sa inyong pamilya.

Ginawa ko ang lahat ng aking makakaya. Ako ay nagsusumamo sa simpleng pasasalamat na maririnig o kaya ay tapik sa balikat na nagsasabing, “Narito kami. Lumaban ka hanggat kaya.” Kasabay ng paghihinuha sa sitwasong ito ay ang pagtulo ng luhang nagpapahiwatig na pagod na ako. Sa bawat luhang nahuhulog sa pahina ng aklat na nasa mesa ay ang paglabas ng mga saloobing humihikayat ng negatibong gawain.

Subalit sa kabila ng kayraming luhang pumatak ay pinili pa ring itiklop ang aklat. Humiling sa Panginoon ng katahimikan na galing sa kanya. Nagsusumamo sa yakap na hindi nakikita. Piniling matulog sa higaan, umaasam na sa pagdilat ng dalawang mata ay may umagang nagpapahiwatig ng liwanag. Umagang hindi man sigurado sa minutong ito subalit piniling maniwalang matatanaw pa.

Kinaumagahan, ito ay linggo. Pinili kong patuloy na makipagsapalaran, hinanda ang sarili sa panibagong linggong punong-puno ng mga katanungang dumaragdag sa aking paulit-ulit na mga tanong. Kinuha ang bag sabay sabing, “Ma, Pa, alis na po ako”.

Sa paglisan ay kasabay ang pagtulo ng aking luha na sakit ang iniinda, bumabalot sa aking isipan ang mga katagang ipagpatuloy mo ang iyong nasimulan. Natatanaw ang dulo, kahit mahirap ay ipagpatuloy mo.

Nariyan ang sarili mo lalong-lalo na ang pamilya mong hindi mo man ramdam sa kasalukuyan ay tiyak na magpapasalamat kapag natanaw nila na suot-suot mo ang maroon na toga sa araw ng iyong pagtatapos.

“Magpatuloy ka at siguraduhing lalabas kang may hininga pa!”

THE HORROR OF MY

Madam A

I disrobe the black wake-inspired cloth that’s shrouding my skin hours a while back in the interment.

“Sweet dreams,” beeped my Mom high hoping to antagonize the threat of bad dreams.

Before I will my wearied orbs to close, my peripheral vision whispered that someone is looking at me. I craned my neck and averted my vision behind my glass window. My sight focused on a frame of a creepy pale man stabbed a couple of times in his torso. I played a blind eye right, I beheld horror and in just a minute fleeting moment, I chose to sink myself into deeper unconsciousness.

“I am going to kill you,” the middleaged woman roared like a rumbling thunder while choking me. I did not waste my strength to fight back. Instead, I give her a smirk.

I was brought back into consciousness when I heard a gunshot. The sound became louder and louder until I saw a man covered with blood in my room.

“You will die,” he said with so much grudge in every word as he pointed the gun at my head and he’s going to pull the trigger any time very soon.

“I will not,” I muttered back to the man whose burial was the one I recently attended. I plastered an evil smile, blinked thrice, and he was

gone out of my sight.

Yes, I see ghosts. The ghosts and the nightmares that perpetually haunt me are the remnants of the deeds I did. I killed. Fear not the dead ones because they are not the demons. Fear the alive ones because they are the real demons.

“Please, don’t do this to me. I still have a family waiting for me,” the bearded man pleaded like a weeping dog with his knees bending. As a person who abominates beseeching, my fire to run the knife in one’s neck intensifies at a higher rate.

“Why would I?” I whispered to his quivering right ear. I pressed further the knife that I think has created a minute cut. But apparently, no blood sheds. Not yet.

“Don’t you think you’re being ironic?” I smirked as I resumed my sweet litany.

“You almost killed me minutes ago. Good thing, I am much more skillful than you. Tables have turned. Last prayers please.” I counted until 50 in a mental note but I heard nothing from his trembling mouth. He probably does it in silence.

“Let’s make your silence eternal,” and with that, fresh blood squelches out from his poor neck. I craned my head in all angles of the vicinity. I see someone seemingly hiding

a phone in her chest like she just dialed seconds ago. I scrutinized her eyes, it reflected abomination, horror, rage, and anguish.

“Mom,” my trembling lips mumbled. I saw her orbs turning into waterfalls. She was the bravest woman I’ve ever known in the entire universe, but right now I just broke that high wall she built.

Things passed in a blur. My senses failed to keep track. My eyes were blinded by the police cars’ light. My ears went deaf of their sirens.

“Fuck,” the only profanity I uttered. The men in uniform approached my stance. All guns are pointing at me. I know they would not shoot me to death. They only want me to turn myself in.

But…I won’t. My foot moved backwardly. But, my back soon hit a wall. This is a dead end. My dead end, perhaps.

I put down the reddish knife only to trick them. I pulled out a 45-calibre and fired to them. To say I’m frenzied is an understatement. But then, I am outnumbered.

Before their bullets sent me to unconsciousness, I pulled the trigger to my head.

Yes, I am a killer. I am MY killer.

Illustration by Sharif Ryan Beldia

SINNED and SIN

Aubrey Maye Arrieta

I stared upon my window the turquoise abyss of the ocean. There is no way to defy but welcome the cold breeze kissing my bare skin. “Here’s your food, John,” my mom exerted an effort to sound jovial but her voice and emotion say otherwise. She put the tray on my table and stirred the mixture of banana shake she prepared for me. My mouth watered just by imagining its palatability. “Are we not going to have dinner together tonight?,” I asked with my voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I have an important errand to run,” and she traversed her farewell walk out of my room’s threshold. I have been hearing that line for years now and the pain always felt like a struck of a bullet. I understand where she is coming from. She became the different mom I used to have after my father and sister departed life.

Flashback to the times my world started to crumble. I whimpered like a dog for the beloved lives that have been lost during that day—November 1. To say that I am shattered would be an understatement. My spine shivers beholding the blood spreading like a river inside the room. I cannot will back the tears showering from my two orbs as I put my ear to my sister’s mouth. There I confirmed she was not breathing…so was my father lifelessly lying in a fetal position with bullets pierced through in his torso.

“John, here’s your food,” my mom exerted an effort to sound jovial but her voice and emotion said otherwise. “Are we not going to have dinner together tonight?” I asked with my voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I have an important errand to run.” She was about to do the mantra she always exhibits when I hit the table where the foods are situated. I heard a clunking when both the spoon and fork fell down the floor. “Mom, can you please see the other side of the door? It’s not only you who suffers most,” I said hoping I could still tame the fury building deep within but I threw the

glass on the wall—the milk spilled untidy alongside with the broken glass.

“John, inhale, exhale…,” she tried to calm my demons down but it wasn’t enough.

“STOP CALLING ME JOHN. THAT IS NOT MY NAME. MY NAME IS PAUL,“ I screamed with a volume like I would want to wake up Poseidon in his sea kingdom throne. But, it was not the person that I anticipated would wake up to. I see an old man wearing his round spectacles and his white coat entering my room alongside the two nurses. After them were two muscled men with guns inserted near their pockets.

“Mom, help me,” I begged for a rescue but my words fell into deaf ears. She stayed in her place doing nothing. “She is not your mom, John,” the doctor said to me while he tried to reach out my right arm. “I SAID MY NAME IS PAUL NOT JOHN,” I shouted. “YOU KILLED MY FATHER, YOU KILLED MY SISTER,” I continued.

“No, your real name is John Kennon not Paul Ster…” the doctor told me and dropped a bomb on the floor. I kneeled down and pick up the photos. “NO…NO…N--O…,” the only litany I could pull. I could not fathom the idea that I was here—in a mental health institution for criminals who shed life in the past life. I want to feel the zenith of pain what would it be like to be shot dead. I want to feel the pain-est of all the pain inflicted to my father and lone sister. I hastily grasp the gun that has been threatened in my direction awhile back. I put the head of the pistol onto my temporal. I recited my last prayer before I end the life I did not dream to have. “Forgive me for I have sinned. Forgive me for I will sin.” But before I could pull the trigger, a needle pierced through my biceps. Everything numbs and my whole being then fell into unconsciousness.

THERE IS NO DJ AND SOMEONE’S ON THE PHONE: The best worst eulogy I have ever heard

Nom De Plume

The night is cold black. Every point of gaze is a blurred nothingness of slum houses, but the church, in front, tried to break the autonomy with its olden bricks, desperately kept alive with its unevenly coated baby blue paint. It was the only place kept lit with unnatural white luminous lights, some flickering as if half-dead, half-alive.

Though such a dreary scene, the place was flocked with a crowd of almost a hundred people. All, intently listening from a poorly modulated speaker, a crying lady on a cellphone. What could have been a worse eulogy than this? Somewhere in a poorish apartment in Manila, someone is delivering her last message, to a barrio in General Santos, to her mother in a coffin through a video message.

Well, it could be looked at from another angle where it’s somehow fairly rich from the eyes of the people. They’re seeing the eulogy through a brandnew smartphone. But I don’t care if that smartphone is new, I’m more concerned about why the lady on the phone is not beside her mother, physically.

Covid, darling. That’s the answer. And the moment she finished her eulogy, it was not even literally finished as the phone ran out of data. It could not get worse, perhaps? So, I just take a cup of instant coffee from the usher’s tray, roaming the church once in a while to give a novelty drink. Ah, I think it’s Kopiko Brown, but I’m having second guesses as I barely can smell the aroma from my pandemic mask.

I don’t know if you’ve got the idea but we are attending a funeral — the last night of the wake. You might think we are all in ties or plaid skirts or slacks and black shoes, but you’d be surprised to find the mass wearing colored clothes ranging

from sleepwear to sweaters to ragged mishmash of clothes. It’s casual province men crowd and oops, the phone had its electronic load backed, we find the crying lady weeping again on a glass screen.

The crowd from the back hurriedly stood up again to watch the phone displayed by the pulpit with daisies and candles and a yellowish dirtied linen of what we could describe as a cover. I sat back because I got tired standing up from the back. Anyhow, I can still hear the eulogy. It’s eerily crispy, something that would remind you of a radio with a DJ hosting a caller. But the caller is crying and there is no DJ this time.

So why a hundred people? Can someone be too loved to be visited by that number of people? Yes and no. It’s a casual thing here in the province to have that number of people attend your wake, erhm, I mean, a wake. Just don’t be surprised if their sole reason is to actually visit the dead body in the casket, no no no... They came here for the food after the mass, ranging from biscuits to, as I’ve mentioned earlier, coffee, to rice cakes and orange juices blended from a sachet pack and a drum of heavily watered-down liquid.

‘Mang! Ngano mo ‘ko gibyaan, nag-promisa pa ka sa’kon na hulaton mo pa ko matapos trabaho diri sa Bulacan,’ this is somehow so dystopic but also pitiful. ‘Mang...!’ and the static haptic cry over a bass speaker breaks the autonomy of the sharp chilled night.

This is the worst yet the most melodramatic eulogy I’ve heard in my life. I sip my Kopiko Brown and realized it was Kopiko Blanca all along.

A Few and More

Rolando

No matter how far the lonely one traveled, I would always be the person where he belongs Forever, and then some more...

It took a split second to fall, And a few more to notice and admire his eyes; And a lot of trust to create a friendship; For everyone feels on their own pace; Everyone has their own time; Hours to know one another, It was easy to say forever and more, Because most people don’t know what it truly meant, Yet, within the second he fell, he understood it right away, As forever was right by his vision, Offering him his unique and brightest smile, Under the dim light; But then it only took a minute

and a heartbreak, For him to shatter what could have been theirs; He was always certain about what he felt, But then, it was not the same for the other; So there he flew to find his calling; A journey that took him seven times around the sun, And a thousand miles across the earth

Only for him to realize that, No matter how far the lonely one traveled, I would always be the person where he belongs Forever, And then some more.

L. Baisac, Jr.

Illustration by Louise Gabrielle Abing

Ang Bunga ng Munting Punla

Ronajean May J. Lavado

Itong munting punla, Na itinanim sa lupa, Kung tiyak ang alaga, Siguradong ika’y mamamangha.

Sisibol ang mga dahon, Sasabay ang paglaki sa panahon, Mga ugat ay mas babaon, Tanda ng mas matatag na pundasyon.

Ngunit tandaan, panaho’y ‘di batid, Itong tanim, nalalanta, nababasa ng di lingid, At kung sakali ito’y tuluyang mawala sa gilid.

Nawa’y manaig ang pusong bukas, pursigido’t walang bahid.

Totoo, mahirap ang magsimulang muli, Lalo pa’t oras, panahon at lakas ay nadali.

Subalit tandaan, pagkatalo’y may dala ring wagi, Mga bagong kaalaman ay mamamalagi.

Ang panibagong punla, Na itinanim sa lupa, na may bitbit ng tiyaga at tiyak na alaga, Ngayon ay pipitasin ko ng masagana.

in this busy street where people are sauntering like they don’t bring any weight inside them makes me wonder how can they not notice me?

I am here standing amidst streetlights, naked, yet, still not described by everyone.

the light that roofed over me was darkled as I wore my shirts. I tried covering my entire being for I was afraid people that surround me would not swallow the hard pill I have to offer.

i started removing my clothes and the thorns inside me were slowly burning to ashes and left voids on my abode. wry it was that when I tucked myself people would demur me but when I’m in the raw they would lampoon me to death.

where will I go?

i’m naked in this vast street nowhere to flee lost, and abandoned. please say, you accept me, I beg to thee.

vector artwork by freepik

if there was a dire plea

John Zhidrik Galon

with the sun setting behind you, I never found it hard to peek in the flare. you were just there sitting, and I, in front of you, was mesmerized by your beauty— always.

your eyes were something I could never get tired of gazing at, and your soft and thin lips—I would forever want to kiss.

the sun behind you exploded it caused a great flash of white light that almost blinded me.

an asteroid then followed and defused on entry, but you never bothered to move an inch. you just took my hand, gripped it,

wrapped your hands on my waist, then on my neck, pulled my body against your body— the people around us were already screaming.

and suddenly, you were gone. and in one blink, the world became a garden.

the crater from the asteroid with limbs and flowers smeared on it, the fire, the ashes, the faults, the crevices, and you, I was still looking for you. there were only two words coming out from our mouth before thehavoc wreaked— a language only the two of us could understand.

if we try to ignore things and just put them to end,

will they really be gone?

if we won’t speak, when will we tell different stories?

if the comfort just severs more than it

should bind, do you still see me the same as the first time you saw me and said I was lovely?

there and finally, I found you. nothing else mattered.

I didn’t care if there was a dire plea, or bleakness, or oblivion. but I don’t see them; the skies are still blue. there is no stench in the seas. the garden doesn’t have deep craters. the world is normal.

we acted like nothing happened. kissed for more; hugged even tighter. did the end of the world really happen?

Illustration by Lyle Jome Dela Madrid

StatHUE of Liberty

Miss A

In the abyss of turquoise & wavy ocean

Sans storm, sans sun

In Poseidon’s perpetual kingdom

From sailing free, deprive no one

Seize the moment, savor the freedom

While it lasts, enjoy like it’s always the last

Still, everything comes with limit

Thy accountability in every action shall meet

Freedom and responsibility are couple

Inseparable, unbreakable

Once shattered and broken up

Laws are violated; punishment is up

Every breath, every act

That you do, that you don’t

Thee actions, thee words

Think a thousand times, you might hurt one

Shun everything but responsibility

Take this for this is the key

What a wonderful world it would be

If everyone colors’ liberty comes with responsibility

Illustration by Sharif Ryan Beldia

A Battle for What is True Against What is Right

Nom De Guerre

The truth is not a linear polarization

On the colored spectacles with lens’ hue shifting

Having different vibrance, different saturation

Making opinion is a beholder’s owning

Tho on certain spectacles, the trolls run like meth

Ravaging the Filipino strata bloke

They serve the son of the ill demon, Baphometh

The one whose teeth and jaws grinds grimace and packed coke

But on the battle of disinformation plight

If opinion is accepted more than truth

Normalizing twisted narratives and ill sleuth On facts shun, lies glorify, history rewrite

A battle for what is true against what is right

For if the right is fabricated by the vile

Then be the left and scourge ablaze the toxic blight

Never again, never anew, we lay the tile

The right is not always what is branded as true

The truth is not always what is labeled right

Sometimes it’s shunned, it’s disgraced, it’s left in hindsight

For if the truth is right, then why is he seated

Philippine nationalism is not sugar

It is more than noble savages and white knights

It is the youth fighting lies and distortion war

It is fighting for truth, not what is implied right

If they won, we still shout never ever again

We fight for truth, not what is right.

paper texture by texturelabs