Grace Pasco
My hometown has an eight-letter name.
I have to untame my tongue to reach Tagaytay.
If my tale were told in Scrabble tiles,
the 90 degrees angles would build a four-story house.
On file, would be the barangay,
which means "village," translated to English,
the language I've come to program my larynx with.
I'm miles away from mountain ridges
topped with banana trees and fresh breezes.
Mild are the winds.
Wild is the joy evoked
by my hometown with an eight-letter name,
where my untamed imagination
grew to love tales of magic carpets,
where kitchen tiles saw star apple pieces.
These details I file and flag as sacred.
Though I'm miles away
and mild is my hindsight vision,
wild is the love I exude in adoration
of my eight-letter named hometown.
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