“Humans have walked
on the surface of the moon,
but we still haven’t been
to the deepest part of the ocean.”
– Tomoko Ninomiya.
Nagbag-o na an ngatanan, labot la san kadagatan.
An asin, an balod, ngan an grasya nga ginhahatag
san lawod. Mao an ginbibinalik-balik san kinabuhi
nga tinatag-iyahan na san langsa. Diri pinapaglan
an nadupa nga palatik san pagkapyot san katig
nga nagsusurusaliwan paghiram-os san burublag
nga mga bura. Padayon an ulaton nga plywood
san paghangkop ngadto san samaron na nga kasko
san iya baloto. Sinukol na niya kun pira kabugsay
ngadto san lugar nga iya pirmi ginpupunduhan.
Haluag an dagat nga nanginginahanglan san gi-utan.
Sa kahiladman, may-ada diri maaabot an iya kawil:
An mga plato, nga san lamisa diri na mahaharukan;
an espada, tikang san aragway nga waray kahumanan;
ngan an mga saad nga waray makaabot ngadto
san ginsaaran. Iginpapasangilan la san pagkalutaw
san lubi, paklang, ngan tsinelas nga waray kayang-kayang
an iya mga inop mahiunong san tiil nga naipit san bato.
Ginpapakli san kasirom san tubig an napipiksi
na nga panit. Nag-aaragaw san mga tinae tikang
sa butod nga tiyan an kaisdaan, sugad san pagkukot
nira san paon. Sa numero nala makikilala an ira nawong.
Pero ananuhon pa man kun inundangan na an pag-ihap.
Sigi la an paglimas san tubig nga nasulod sa iya sakayan –
an kalibutan kun diin may nasisibad nga mga handumanan.
Fisherman
“Humans have walked
on the surface of the moon,
but we still haven’t been
to the deepest part of the ocean.”
– Tomoko Ninomiya.
Everything has changed except the sea:
Salt, wave, and grace from deep waters.
This is what a life possessed by stench
keeps returning to. The bent pole never tires
holding the outriggers together, splitting
the foam on the water’s surface.
Scarred wood continues to hold up
the wounded sails of his boat.
He has already measured the times he’d row
to get to the places of remembrance.
How breadth of sea demands borders.
In the deep, there are things inaccessible
to fish hooks: Plates that will never be set
on a table; a sword from a war without end;
a promise that will never reach its receiver.
Floating coconuts, fronds, and strapless slippers
are mere excuses for dreams of his foot caught
in a rock. Darkness of water tears at the skin.
Fish rumble over the rotten insides
of a gut the way they latch on to nets.
Only by their numbers will you know their faces.
But what use when the counting has ceased?
He scoops water out of the boat—
a world awashed with his imaginings.
Translated from the Waray by Michael Carlo C. Villas
