Letter to My Son by Axel Pinpin

Son, there is no one who will tell you stories this night,
you will twist and turn upon your bed, with no one beside you;
hug close a pillow I left behind, or place a leg upon it,
for I will also embrace you, here, where I have long been imprisoned.

Son, no one will prepare your breakfast for tomorrow,
you will wake up with no chocolates or pandesal to greet you;
use the cup I last made my coffee on,
for I will also eat with you, here, in the gloom of my prison cell.

Son, the house remains silent upon your return,
with a deafening loneliness cast upon our darkened room;
go play the music we last listened to, together,
for I also whistle it here, that tune we know and love.

Son, learn well the tales of solitude and aprrehension,
realize the hunger of the farmers I have fought for,
and study the music of struggle and liberation,
but always watch out for the ones who took your father away.

-Translated by Aris Remollino
2009

[Originally published in Tugmaang Matatabil: Selected Poems in Translation, Southern Voices Printing Press, 2009]