By this time last year, I was already spent, communication batteries totally drained. I had covered total almost a hundred kilometers and seen how the earthquake brought Bohol on its knees. Yes, i cringe in pain over toppled churches, flattened houses, roads turned jigsaw puzzle and families strewn over any open fields. My eyes welled, my heart flooded and my soul scraped the bottoms of despair. The swath of devastation is even heightened by a teary widow clutching an infant and yet humming a lullaby. In Bilar, wounded farmer scrapes an antiseptic from a banana trunk, while wallowing a terrified beast. And there was a priest atop a pile of rubble which was once a church side stone doorway seemingly mapping plans for the next days mass venue. Yes, I was glass eyed, flat in the canvas, fight clearly gone out of me. But, for the widow and her infant, the farmer and his carabao and the priest and his congregation, I had to grab the ropes and summon the last ounce of strength to get up and struggle. For them. For us. For the country. RAC 101514 2:38pm
Posted on: Wed, 15 Oct 2014 06:38:34 +0000
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