by: Jasper Dominic Miranda
For the students who stepped up during Hibalag
For eleven days, you lived beneath a borrowed sun,
while Hibalag burned brighter until the work was done.
Heat settled on your skin; dust gathered at your feet,
yet every call of duty pulled you back into the heat.
Your palms learned wood and wire, your fingers smelled of paint,
you shouted through the music though your tired throat grew faint.
Your camera blinked red, its little warning flame,
while every fading “one more” still called you by name.
Then Hibalag dimmed; the booths stood bare and still,
but morning brought your lectures, pages waiting on the sill.
Your pen moved across paper, but the words refused to stay,
as eleven nights of giving followed you into the day.
So let the camera sleep; let the costumes lose their dust.
The flame you kept for everyone was never meant to consume you.
After eleven days of giving, let the quiet give back to you.
