by Shella May Baluyot Landayan

May it please the Court:
I plead injury, but not from breach or tort—
The issues herein raised from graves,
Find transcendental import in this outrage—
Now—as you suspend the fall of the gavel,
Profusely, the crimson rivers swell.
Remember, please, the ghosts of yesteryears:
History is witness—to facts most vile and severe.

Out in the open, breaths dissociate
From names and bodies and consciences—
While gremlins and ghouls callously cavort
In blind obedience: with a usual sport.
The nights find delay.
Papers are led astray.
Writs will soon scamper in fear,
As the hands that hold them err.

The Words,
She, who shields us as we pray,
Clings fearfully to me and says:
“I am the prey.”

Your Honors—please—if I may
Ask a matter forthcoming:
Do statutes apply to shepherds too?
“Yes, of course—” Then what is the recourse,
When shepherds lead the flock
To the den of thieves and wolves?
Alas!—Is there a crime?
Is this the price of democracy—
Paid with lives and rights as currencies?

Does the flock deserve saving?
“And on what basis—” You ask, I replied—
The Words scream soundlessly, overwhelmingly:
“I am the prey! I am the prey!”
Pray tell us—Your Honors: do we deserve saving?
Irony, indeed, is cast in ballots,
Where basic freedoms are gambled,
On shepherds who can trample them mercilessly:
In warrants, searches, and murders.