His was a story of a great drift
From the middle to the left
Not because in his blood was a trace of Chinese
And he once trod the bamboo curtain
(McCarthyites readily saw a yellow contagion)
or he was not pleased at being called son of a grocer
By a dictator who trembles at the sight
Of young rivals to the throne.

He used to believe that ballot is all it takes
To deliver us from rusted chains
But not for long
As he had seen Ora Este go up in flames
Bodies of workers crumpling at factory gates
Students taking to the hills
After getting baptized in street parliaments
And that Con-Con was no more
Than a mere shadow of a futile experiment.

Never did he fear losing identity in the mass
Or grazing his skin as peasants would
He understood well the terror of close calls
How it was to live by the moment
As often he would see hot bullets
Ripping through bones and flesh without notice
He knew how to cherish little victories
And how to store them up as in a dam
Awaiting the inevitable bursting of floodgates.

Here's a man struggle had purified in spirit
Whose life in September began and ended
And whose story could be told for always.

*Edgar Jopson. September 1, 1948-September 20, 1982
1970 TOYM Awardee and people's martyr

December 1982

© Isagani R. Serrano