Hurriedly the crowd disappeared at the street’s end.
Forever the curious faces look and stare, obscuring,
Leaving the possible truth unseen -
Open and big faces are nothing but blurred images.
These are the faces that are saddened by the spying years,
Faces that once gleamed with a surge of promise
And strength, strength tautened with reservations.
From the deep tunnel of winter ploughing,
I see faces growing fragmentary with stale careers.
Under the furious triumph of winter rain, the mind
Quickens. A little leakage of memory fills, drains,
And opens a new wound of queer poignancy.
From the savage lines of faces, it moves, coils,
And sets a fire. Thought is like a mountain storm
Threatening the hunters.
How steep is time,
How deep is sleep—
Reprinted with permission from CARLOS BULOSAN AND HIS POETRY, THE ANTHOLOGY "Unpublished Poems" Section, by Susan Evangelista (U of Wash Press, 1985)
© Carlos Bulosan