It’s a bust missing a plinth

Or a medallion meant to be slung

Around one’s neck, but the Child King

Of our Belief, eyes wide with innocence

Under the crown on his head, can only

Charm us with his mischief. Here, 

Among the countless variety of carving

Chisels left as if mid-work, among

The wood chips and the tools hand-worn

In their dark-brown smoothness,

He reigns child-like but imperial, gold

And radiant as the Katipunan sun

Around his head. We bow reverently

As Indios receiving scapulars and

Amulets―we wear him around our

Neck or bring his chubby cheeks 

To our lips murmuring ejaculations

Taught to us by our catechists. We adore

Him with such fervor as can send us, 

In festival feathers, trinkets, and tassels,

Charcoal on our faces, leaping to our 

Feet, crying Hala Bira! Pit Señor! 

Dancing in the streets, to the tribal

Drumbeats of our colonial Faith!

 

 

Marne Kilates

28 October 2021

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