148
By Pia Montalban
One hundred forty eight.
Not statistics.
Not collateral.
Not a footnote
beneath the language of strategy.
One hundred forty eight little girls
braiding each other’s hair before class,
writing their names in careful ink,
lifting hands to answer questions
about a future they were still spelling out.
Midmorning, the sky tore open.
The blackboard split in half.
Desks became splinters.
Lunchboxes burst into shrapnel.
And somewhere,
in rooms with flags and polished tables,
men rehearsed the grammar of necessity.
But what word justifies
a crater where a classroom stood?
What doctrine explains
pink backpacks buried in dust?
One hundred forty eight daughters.
Daughters who memorized poems.
Daughters who practiced handwriting.
Daughters whose mothers ironed uniforms
with the quiet pride of tomorrow.
They did not draft policy.
They did not chart military maps.
They did not choose this war.
Yet their names were written
in smoke across the sky.
Empire will call it complex.
History will call it conflict.
But earth knows the simpler truth:
children were learning
and then they were gone.
One hundred forty eight.
Say it slowly.
Let it sit heavy in the mouth.
May their absence haunt every briefing.
May their silence disturb every anthem.
May the world learn, at last,
that no flag is worth
the life of a little girl.
= = = = = = = =
Cry of Iran
By George T. Calaor
Steel rains on Tehran.
The sky has become
a vastness of blood
and fire.
Each bomb moans
the invasion
of imperialists…
each ash whispers
the fear of children scorched by war.
The night is a constellation
of drones–
cold fireflies
of death…
and the earth
has become
a vast grave
of memory—blazing flames of life
that will not be forgotten.
Palestine wails
in rage…
Lebanon trembles
in revulsion…
The world is spun
by lies–posing
as the police
of global security
and peace—yet
the truth…
the real threat
is the hand groping beneath the desert thirsting not
for water
but for the
black blood
of the earth
to feed an empire
slowly devoured
by its own shadow.
Rise!
No bomb…
non lie or fear
can ever kill
freedom.
—-
Sigaw ng Iran
Bumubuhos
ang bakal
sa Tehran.
Langit ay
naging kalawakan
ng dugo at apoy.
Bawat bomba
ay umuungol ng pananakop ng imperyalista…
bawat abo ay bumubulong
ng takot
ng mga bata na ginulantang
ng digma…
ang gabi ay konstelasyon
ng mga drone
malamig na alitaptap
ng kamatayan…
at ang lupa
ay naging malawak
na libingan
ng alaala–
naglalagablab
na apoy
ng buhay
na hindi
malilimutan.
Humihikbi sa galit
ang Palestina…
nanginginig sa pagkasuklam
ang Lebanon…
mundo ay
pinapainog sa kasinungalingan–
nagbabalatkayong
pulis ng seguridad
at kapayapaan
ng sanlibutan–
ngunit ang katotohanan…
ang tunay
na banta
ay ang kamay
na kumakapa
sa ilalim
ng disyerto–
uhaw hindi sa tubig
kundi sa itim
na dugo ng lupa
upang palakasin
ang imperyong
unti-unting
nilalamon
ng sarili
nitong anino.
Tumindig ka!
Walang bomba, kasinungalingan
o takot ang makapapatay
kailanman
sa kalayaan.
