Three generations of wanderers, Rolling Hills, Batan Island, Batanes

I never learned to count my blessings,
I choose instead to dwell in my disasters.
I walk on down the hill,
through grass, grown tall and brown

And of these cut-throat busted sunsets,
these cold and damp white mornings
I have grown weary.

If through my cracked and dusted dime-store lips
I spoke these words out loud would no one hear me?

There’s a lot of things that can kill a man,
there’s a lot of ways to die.