In One Of Our Travels Poem by RIC BASTASA

in one of our travels
we stopped on our weary feet
in a town where the birds
are not singing. The landlord
offered a day of revelry.
Some tables and chairs were
transferred in the open garden
of chinese roses. And some
corks were let open. Some chickens'
necks were cut and blood
flowed on the sink. That noon
we heard the crickets.
The bamboo leaves swayed
in one direction.
From a distance we saw
how the carabaos were butchered
but we cannot hear the sounds
of their dying.
And then the host raised
his glass and said
' Buenas, buen salud! '

We as usual say what we are
wont to say, 'Gracias, gracias! '

deep in my heart when we left
the place, i said, ' There is no meaning
in the lives of men anymore'.