"The Face Upon the Floor"

‘Twas a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there,
Which well-nigh filled Joe’s barroom, on the corner of the square;
And as songs and witty stories Came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" someone said. "The wind has blown it in."
"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whiskey, or rum or gin?"
"Here, Toby, sic ‘em, if your stomach’s equal to the work–
I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;
In fact, he smiled as tho’ he thought he’d struck the proper place.
"Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd–
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink–that’s what I want… I’m out of funds, you know,
When I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow.
What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks, that’s braced me nicely, God bless you one and all;
Next time I pass this good saloon, I’ll make another call.
Give you a song? No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past;
My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out and my lungs are going fast.

"I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.
Say! Give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what I’ll do…
That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think;
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame–
Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;
Five fingers… there, that’s the scheme… and corking whiskey, too.
Well, here’s luck, boys and landlord… my best regards to you.

"You’ve treated me pretty kindly and I’d like to tell you true
How I came to be the dirty sot, you see before you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health,
And but for a blunder ought to have made, considerable wealth.

"I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks and wood,
But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good.
I worked hard at my canvas and was bidding fair to rise,
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the ‘Chase of Fame’.
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name,
And then I met a woman… now comes the funny part–
With eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart.

"Why don’t you laugh? ’tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me;
But ’twas so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.

"Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;

"The Song of the Shirt"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread–
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work — work — work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It’s Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

"Work — work — work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work — work — work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you’re wearing out,
But human creatures’ lives!
Stitch — stitch — stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own —
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work — work — work!
My Labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags.
That shatter’d roof — and this naked floor —
A table — a broken chair —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work — work — work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work — work — work!
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,
As well as the weary hand.

"Work — work — work,
In the dull December light,
And work — work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright —
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.

Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet —
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!

Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, —
Would that its tone could reach the Rich! —
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

"I Demand Death!"

My hands are wet with blood. They are crimsoned with the blood of a man I have just killed.
I have come here today to confess. I have committed murder, deliberate, premeditated murder. I have killed a man in cold blood. That man is my master.
I am here not to ask for pity but for justice.  Simple, elementary justice. I am a tenant… My father was a tenant before me and so was his father before him. This misery is my inheritance and perhaps this will be my legacy to my children.

I have labored on a patch of land not mine. But I have learned to love that land, for it is the only thing that lies between me and complete destitution.
It is the only world that I have learned to cherish. And somewhere on that land I have managed to build what is now the dilapidated nipa shack that has been home to me.
I have but a few world possessions, mostly rags. My debts are heavy. They are sum total of my ignorance and the inspired arithmetic of my master, which I do not understand.
I labor like a slave and out of the fruits of that labor I get but a mere pittance for a share. And I have to stretch that mere pittance to keep myself and my family alive.
My poverty has reduced me to the bare necessities of life. And the constant fear of rejection from the land has made me totally subservient to my master. You tell me that under the constitution, I am a free man-free to do what I believe is just, free to do what I think is right, and free to worship God according to the dictate of my conscience. But I do not understand the meaning of all these for I have never known freedom. I have always obeyed the wishes of my master out of fear. I have always regarded myself as no better than a slave to the man who owns the land on which I live.  I do not ask you to forgive me nor to mitigate my crime.  I have taken the law into my own hands, and I must pay for it in atonement.
But kill this system. Kill this system and you kill despotism.  Kill this system and you kill slavery.  Kill this despotism and you set the human soul to liberty and freedom.  Kill this slavery and you release the human spirit into happiness and contentment.  For the cause of human liberty, of human happiness and contentment, thousands and even millions have died and will continue to die.
Mine is only one life.  Take me if you must but let it be a sacrifice to the cause which countless others have been given before and will be given again and again, until the oppressive economic system has completely perished, until the sons of toil have been liberated from enslavement, and until man has been fully restored to decency and self respect.
You tell me of the right to life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness. But I have known no rights, only obligations; I have known no happiness; only despair in the encumbered existence that has always been my lot.
My dear friend, I am a peace-loving citizen. I have nothing but love for my fellowmen. And yet, why did I kill this man?  It is because he was the symbol of an economic system which has made him and me what we are: He, a master, and I, a slave.
Out of a deliberate design I killed him because I could no longer stand this life of constant fear and being a servant. I could no longer suffer the thought of being perpetually a slave.
I committed the murder as an abject lesson.  I want to blow that spelled the death of my master to be a death blow to the institution of the economic slavery which shamelessly exists in the bright sunlight of freedom that is guaranteed by the constitution to every man.  My dear friend: I do anguish from the weak and helpless and has laid upon the back of the ignorant labor burdens that are too heavy to be borne, I demand death!
To this callous system of exploitation that has tightened the fetters of perpetual bondage in the hands of thousands, and has killed the spirit of freedom in the hearts of men, I demand death.
To this oppression that has denied liberty to the free and unbounded children of God, I DEMAND DEATH!

"Murderess"

It’s already twelve o’clock. Oh, God, I’m hungry! I’ve been running and hiding for almost three days. I’m dead tired. I need some rest. But no, they are looking for me! And if they find me, I will be put to jail. But, where can I hide? Leo’s father is so influential, so powerful. He is the governor of our great province and I happened to kill his son!
No, don’t accuse me like that! I’m not a murderess! Hear me, I’m begging you, I tell you I’m not a murderess.
Audience, let me explain, please.
Okay, okay, okay! It all happened in school one day. I went to the library to find a book. Then I found it. I got so engrossed to what I was reading that I almost didn’t notice the time. It was gone past six and, oh my! I think I was the only student left in the library. To my dismay, Leo was waiting for me outside. I wanted to hide but it was too late. He was already in front of me.
“Hi, Brenda! Can I drive you home?”
I shook my head irritatingly. My God, how I hate him! He often sends me scented love letters in pink stationery which I sent back all unopened. He sends me roses and chocolates, too. They are my favorites. I wanted so much to eat the chocolates, but I hate the person who gave them. So I throw them into the trash. How could I ever get away from this guy?
“Hey, Leo, wait a minute! If you want to drive me home, thanks, but no thanks! I’m old enough to go home on my own, okay? So, please stop following me like a dog! And besides, I’m too young for love and I don’t accept any suitors, understand?”
“But, Brenda, I love you! Can’t you understand? I can give you anything you want. Say it and you’ll have it. And, Brenda, remember, I can get everything I want by hook or crook. So you’d better be good to me or else. Ha… ha… ha…!”
And he started laughing like a monster. I got so scared. I know how powerful his family was, but I still insisted, “Leo, how can you be such a jerk? I don’t like you and I don’t love you. In fact, I hate you! Now, will you leave me alone?”
But instead of leaving, do you know what he did? He pushed me so hard against the wall and started kissing me. I was shouting for help, but no, no one was there!
“Somebody, help me, please! Please, please! Help! Help!”
Then he gave me a big, big punch on my stomach. Oh my God! It was painful!
But even before he reached for me again, I spotted a rusty knife and grabbed it.
“Now, Mr. Leo Monteverde, try to kiss me again, attempt to rape me again, and I will never ever forgive you! Go to hell! Um… um… ummm!”
I didn’t know how many times I pushed the rusty knife in his body. Then I noticed something. Blood, blood… there’s a blood on my hands!
Leo, Leo…! Oh, God! I killed Leo! No, I’m not a murderess! He was going to rape me and I just defended myself. I didn’t mean to do it, I’m not a murderess! I’m not a murderess! But I killed Leo…! I killed him! I’m a murderess! Ha! Ha! I’m a murderess! Ha! Ha! Ha!

"The Man with a Hoe"

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back, the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?
Down all the caverns of Hell to their last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this--
More tongued with cries against the world's blind greed--
More filled with signs and portents for the soul--
More packed with danger to the universe.

What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of the Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Powers that made the world,
A protest that is also prophecy.

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
How will the future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings--
With those who shaped him to the thing he is--
When this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world,
After the silence of the centuries?

"A Heathen Declamation"

I am unique

There is no one else exactly like me

And yet I am one with the whole of nature

I serve the power that moves the universe

For I exist in the universe

And the soul of the universe

Manifests through me

I have the right to be all that I am

My innermost soul is divine and complete

I am honoured with the charge to exceed myself

That the outer manifestation

May be truer to the core reality

Oh thou who givest sustenance to the universe

From whom all things proceed

And unto whom all things must return

Grant me authentic beauty of soul

May the outward and the inward life be at one

I stand before the Mighty Ones

Uncovered in reverence and clothed in space

I pray with all sincerity

That thou unveil to me

The face of the true spiritual sun

And reveal unto me the runes

That I may know the truth

And do my whole duty

              As I journey to thy sacred feet

"Poor Boy"

Look at me!!! I am part of the masses... the facet of society many so often push around... Why can't they ever stop to think... that, I am human too... that I, too, feel like them... Why can't you answer me??? You must have something in mind... Why can't you answer me??? I know you must have something in mind... Where is their sense of morality??? They trampled upon me as if I was trash... I never did them any wrong!!! Was it a sin I committed when I came to this world as a poor boy??? A poor boy... yes that's what I am... A state of being I didn't even choose at the first place. Was it a sin I committed, to be born like this?? Now tell me!!! Did you ever have the right to choose your status in life when you were born??? Think!!! Before you condemn me... Do I ever have a choice?
I am deprived of all the chances in life... I am looked down upon by people as someone who is too dirty... too smelly... too poor... but I have a heart... Yes!!! I have a golden heart... For every coin I get out of begging helps my younger siblings to survive. The money I earn goes a long way to feed my family... How about you??? How do you feed your family??? Are you 100% sure you work decent enough to earn more??? Are you sure that the money you earned didn't come from a dirty strategy other corrupt politicians used to do to gain power? Can you honestly look at your child straight in the eye true to your heart's core and with a clear conscience?? Have you ever been aware that the money you use to feed your family is an outcome of your hard labor and decent job you can always be proud of??? WHY DID YOU SUDDENLY BECOME QUIET??? WHAT IS IN YOUR MIND NOW?? Tell me!!! Come on, tell me!!!
Huh!!! You have good clothes, you never experienced sleeping without a roof, you eat good food, you enjoy the comforts of life... But, somewhere deep in your mind, your conscience haunts you... Yes... you will never sleep good... Within your subconscious mind, your guilty conscience still haunts you, constantly reminding you about your evil ways... Wow... And you still think you are clean???
Outside, you smell fresh and clean, but deep within your soul... I know you stink... Oh... I believe that kind of smell goes through your body... Yes your soul is bound to burn in hell!!! And look at me! I am just a poor boy... honestly begging for mercy from people like you, to feed my brothers and sisters... to survive, but I never stepped down on anyone. I never stole from anyone nor did I ever use anyone to improve our lives... I can sleep good... Can you??? With a kind conscience like that, well, I don't think so. You will never sleep well... you don't have any right to sleep with a sound mind and a light heart...

"Bad Girl"

Hey! Every Body seems to be staring at me..

You! You! All of you!

How dare you to stare at me?

Why? Is it because I’m a bad girl?

A bad girl I am, A good for nothing teen ager, a problem child?

That’s what you call me!

I smoke. I drink. I gamble at my young tender age.

I lie. I cheat, and I could even kill, if I have too.

Yes, I’m a bad girl, but where are my parents?

You! You! You are my good parents?

My good elder brother & sister in this society were I live?

Look…look at me…What have you done to me?

You have pampered and spoiled me, neglected me when I needed you most!

In trusted me to a yaya, whose intelligent was much lower than mine!

While you go about your parties, your meetings and gambling sessions…

Thus… I drifted away from you!

Longing for a fathers love, yearning for a mothers care!

As I grow up, everything change!

You too have change!

You spent more time in your pokers, mahjong tables, bars and night clubs.

You even landed on the headline of the news paper as crook, peddlers and racketeers.

Now, you call my name; accuse me in everything I do to myself?

Tell me! How good you are?

If you really wish to ensure my future

Then hurry….hurry back home! Where I await you, because I need you…

Protect me from all evil influences that will threaten at my very own understanding…

But if I am bad, really bad…then, you’ve got to help me!

Help me! Oh please…Help me!

"Juvenile Delinquent"

Am I a juvenile delinquent? I'm a teenager, I'm young, young at heart in mind. In this position, I'm carefree, I enjoy doing nothing but to drink the wine of pleasure. I seldom go to school, nobody cares!. But instead you can see me roaming around. Standing at the nearby canto (street). Or else standing beside a jukebox stand playing the nerve tickling bugaloo.Those are the reasons, why people, you branded me delinquent, a juvenile delinquent.

My parents ignored me, my teachers sneered at me and my friends, they neglected me. One night I asked my mother to teach me how to appreciate the values in life. Would you care what she told me? "Stop bothering me! Can't you see? I had to dress up for my mahjong session, some other time my child". I turned to my father to console me, but, what a wonderful thing he told me. "Child, here's 500 bucks, get it and enjoy yourself, go and ask your teachers that question".

And in school, I heard nothing but the echoes of the voices of my teachers torturing me with these words. "Why waste your time in studying, you can't even divide 100 by 5! Go home and plant sweet potatoes".

I may have the looks of Audrey Hepburn, the calmly voice of Nathalie Cole. But that's not what you can see in me. Here's a young girl who needs counsel to enlighten her way and guidance to strenghten her life into contentment.

Honorable judge, friends and teachers...is this the girl whom you commented a juvenile delinquent?.

"I killed her"

I killed her because I do love her. These hands, these hands that give life to many, killed her because of my love to her.

Ladies and Gentlemen of this honorable court, please listen to me, listen to my story before you give my verdict. I am Dr. Reyes, a cancer specialist. I was born in a slum district of Batalon. My father oh! I don't know him for I am a child of faith. My mother brought me up in such determination and my ambition was to escape the filthy and horrible place of Batalon. I was nourished with hope that someday I might live a life different from her. My mother had a burning faith that she turned the nights into days. All her efforts were not in vain for I pushed through with flying colors. My mother who had given her whole life to me had tears in her eyes as she pinned the gold medal on my proud breast.

Later on, I was sent as a scholar of the Philippines to the United States of America. I embraced my mother… tightly as I've reached the plane….."Mother, mother,.." I whispered. You will always be my best mother in the world.

After four years, I came back with laurels. I became a cancer specialist. I gave my mother everything but I was too late. I who had used to ease the pain of many, came too late to the life of my dying mother. I gave the best treatment but the grasp of death was so tight around her. My God, what is the use of ten years of study if I couldn't even use it at my mother's pain.

Then one night, I heard a strange cry. I run to her room. "Do you love me, child?"… she asked, as I embrace her. " Yes, mother….. If only I could get all your pain and agonies…"

" Then….. if you love me, end my sufferings, kill me… Let me die."

"But, mother, I promise to give life and not to end it."

God…. She did not deserve the unhappiness. She deserves to be happy.

I run to my room and came back with a syringe.

"Mother, forgive me…. God, please understand me…."

"Mother, mother, you must not die….. Don't leave, I love you. It was only a distilled water…..Mother…… Mother……. MOTHER……"


Now, Ladies and Gentlemen, give me your verdict. Yes, it was only distilled water which ended the sufferings of my mother.

Judge me….. Punish me………

GO, punish me………….. Thy will be done!!!

"Dirty Hands"

I’m proud of my dirty hands.  Yes, they are dirty.  And they are  rough and knobby and calloused.  And I’m proud of the dirt and the knobs and the calluses.  I didn’t get them that way by playing bridge or drinking afternoon tea out of dainty cups, or playing the well-advertised Good Samaritan at charity balls.

I got them that way by working with them, and I’m proud of the work and the dirt.  Why shouldn’t I feel proud of the work they do – these dirty hands of mine?
My hands are the hands of plumbers, of truck drivers and street cleaners; of carpenters; engineers, machinists and workers in steel.
They are not pretty hands, they are dirty and knobby and calloused. But they are strong hands, hands that make so much that the world must have or die.
Someday, I think, the world should go down on its knees and kiss all the dirty hands of the working world, as in the days long past, armored knights would kiss the hands of ladies fair.  I’m proud of my dirty hands.  The world has kissed such hands.  The world will always kiss such hands.  Men and women put reverent lips to the hands of Him who held the hammer and the saw and the plane.  His weren’t pretty hands either when they chopped trees, dragged rough lumber, and wielded carpenter’s tools. They were workingman’s hands – strong, capable proud hands.  And weren’t pretty hands when the executioners got through them.  They were torn right clean through by ugly nails, and the blood was running from them, and the edges of the wounds were raw and dirty and swollen; and the joints were crooked and the fingers were horribly bent in a mute appeal for love.
They weren’t pretty hands then, but, Oh God, they were beautiful – those hands of the Savior.  I’m proud of those dirty hands, hands of my Savior, hands of God.
And I’m proud of my hands too, dirty hands, like the hands of my Savior, the Hands of my God!

“Oh Captain My Captain”

Oh Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But Oh heart! heart! heart!
Oh the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Oh Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up–for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult Oh shores, and ring Oh bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

"The Rich Man and the Poor Man"

“Food and money I give to you,
Why do you shout so mercily
When I give you your part?”
queried the rich man.

The poor man replied:
“Your question you cannot answer
For from pain and agony you are free,
But I have suffered and borne
The situation that I don’t like to be in.”

“That I couldn’t understand
Because Life for me is easy;
I take this and take that,
And life is just what I want it to be.”
consented the rich man.

“Comfort your mind, rich man,
with realities of death.
Your wealth I do not envy
For you can not buy
eternity with money.
If to live happily
is to live in hypocrisy,
Then I prefer to be silly
so I would be holy.
Life you love so much you will lose
And only then will you understand
What agony is,” the poor man shouted.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! You say so
For you desire this place of mine.
Indulgence you have clouded with reason
But I understand because of your situation.”
boastfully the rich man said.

Outraged the poor man answered:
“How pitiful the person blinded with pleasure;
No, you don’t care of our journey
That you have created through your greediness.
Come now, man of weak soul!
Your days are numbered for you to face
The Man of Love.
You may not cry now but later you will
When the chilling reality of the last judgment
Comes across your way;
Yes, then you will pity, but not for me.
Not for anybody else.
But for yourself only!
Yes, eat, drink, and be merry.
For tomorrow you shall die!

“A Glass of Cold Water”

Everybody calls me young, beautiful, wonderful. Am I? Look at my hair, my lips, my red rosy cheeks and a pair of blinkering eyes.

I remember, somebody says that I look like my mother that I look like my mother. But that when she was young.

Now, I am much lovelier than she is. I’m a mortal Venus. Oops! What time is it? I must get ready for the party!

Beep-beep…!A-huh! Here they are! Yes, I’m coming!

"Child, are you still there?"

"Hmp! That’s my mama"

"Child, are you still there? Will you please get me a glass of cold water?"

"Mama, I’m in a hurry!"

"Please child, try to get me a glass of cold water."

"Mama, please, try to get it on your own."

"Please child, try to get me a glass of cold water!"

At the party, I danced and danced the whole night.

You see, I can’t leave the party at once. I have to danced with everybody who proposed to me. At last, the party is over. I’m very tired. Very, very tired.

So, I went home to tell mama what happened.

"Mama, I’m home! It’s very quiet. "Mama, I’m home!" Nobody answers.

Where is she? I look for her in the sala, but she’s not there. Where is she? A-huh! In the kitchen!

I saw my mama, lying down on the floor, dead. With a glass on her hand. I remember, she tried to get it.

Oh, God, just for the glass of cold water! Mama! Mama! Oh, Mama!

“Am I to be Blamed?”

They’re chasing me, they’re chasing, no they must not catch me, I have enough money now, yes enough for my starving mother and brothers.

Please let me go, let me go home before you imprisoned me. Very well, officers? take me to your headquarters. Good morning captain! no captain, you are mistaken, I was once a good girl, just like the rest of you here. Just like any of your daughters. But time was, when I was reared in slums. But we lived honestly, we lived honestly in life. My, father, mother, brothers, sisters and I. But then, poverty enters the portals of our home. My father became jobless, my mother got ill. The small savings that my mother had kept for our expenses were spent. All for our daily needs and her needed medicine.

One night, my father went out, telling us that he would come back in a few minutes with plenty of foods and money, but that was the last time I saw him. He went with another woman. If only I could lay my hands on his neck I would wring it without pain until he breaths no more. If you were in my place, you’ll do it, won’t you Captain? What? you won’t still believe in me?. Come and I’ll show you a dilapidated shanty by a railroad.

Mother, mother I’m home, mother? mother?!. There Captain, see my dead mother. Captain? there are tears in your eyes? now pack this stolen money and return it to the owner. What good would this do to my mother now? she’s already gone! Do you hear me? she’s already gone. Am I to be blamed for the things I have done?