अंकल अल One

Uncle Al by Hugh Thomas Patterson April19, 2009

A warn breeze sweeps past the rusted tin roofs lost in time
The fire's smoke shatters a blue and tranquil sky
The old men sit their wrinkles break an earth worn landscape
Speaking in silent tongues where the tribal elsers lie

A thousand miles away on roads paved with toil
A young man walks the contcrete street of dreams
Steam pours out from cracked manhole covers
Out into the cityscape built on scheme

The elders sit on ragged boxes made of lost wood
In a foreign city so far from the Phillipine farm
They speak of days when men lived by simpler means
A place where the memories still grow warm

Little Manilla, a shell of old concrete and sweat
A shell covering the beating bleeding heart
A village in modern, often unforgiving world
A place were dreams never get torn apart

From the kitchens come the smell of spice
Children's eye gaze on in a merciless wonder
A thousand stories spoken around a wooden table
Of Gods and wisemen, of calm and thunder

There at the fading kitchen table sits Uncle Al
The gathered group hangs in balance for his thoughts
Children listen to this elder and wise statesmen
For this is where life's lesson's are taught