Birds in Flight, 1965 by Enrique Villasis

Not as a multitude, but as one. Caught in the rush of an instant only to be contained
In an illusion of light once depicted in a holographic existence
And to give weight to the meaning of lightness. Here, he pointed

To the directions of his imprisonment. How the wings
Have too much dulled and to take wing must orchestrate
The shattering of mirrors: fragile, fine, acicular. The yellowing

Brightness is in the proximity to the light, like how one recognizes beneath
The lightbulb the chick nesting within an egg, as to trace how thick
Illusions go in the labyrinth of plurality. Now, no matter what,

They seem a bouquet of bougainvilla on the palms, dreaming to be set free.

This may be true of desire. One first keeps to heart
The simplest things one loved in childhood: the chase after
A kite broken loose, not minding the prickling thorns,

The mimosa’s curtsey to the sole. That is what freedom simply is.
Not playing patintero with shadows. Not captive to the multiplicity
Of false geometry. Almost brittle but original.

Not as a multitude, but as one. Caught in the rush of an instant only to be contained
In an illusion of light once depicted in a holographic existence
And to give weight to the meaning of lightness. Here, he pointed

To the directions of his imprisonment. How the wings
Have too much dulled and to take wing must orchestrate
The shattering of mirrors: fragile, fine, acicular. The yellowing

Brightness is in the proximity to the light, like how one recognizes beneath
The lightbulb the chick nesting within an egg, as to trace how thick
Illusions go in the labyrinth of plurality. Now, no matter what,

They seem a bouquet of bougainvilla on the palms, dreaming to be set free.

This may be true of desire. One first keeps to heart
The simplest things one loved in childhood: the chase after
A kite broken loose, not minding the prickling thorns,

The mimosa’s curtsey to the sole. That is what freedom simply is.
Not playing patintero with shadows. Not captive to the multiplicity
Of false geometry. Almost brittle but original.

Birds in Flight, 1965

^{Listen to Enrique Villasis read “Birds in Flight, 1965” in the original Filipino}

Hindi marami, kundi iisa. Dinakip sa bilis ng mga iglap upang mapiit
Sa ilusyon ng liwanag nang maitanghal sa holograpikong pag-iral
At makapagbigay bigat sa kahulugan ng gaan. Dito, ganap niyang

Naituturo ang mga direksyon ng kanyang pagkakakulong. Lubos
Ang pagkakapurol ng mga pakpak at ang pagaspas ay orkestradong
Pagkabasag ng mga salamin: manipis, pino, linyado. Nasa lapit ng ilaw

Ang tingkad ng paninilaw, katulad kung papaano kinikikilala sa ilalim
Ng bombilya ang nanahang sisiw sa itlog, upang mabakas ang kapal
Ng pamamalikmata sa laberinto ng pluralidad. Ngayon, kahit papaano,

Tila pumpon ito ng mga bunggambilya sa palad, nangangarap makaalpas.

Na maaring totoo ito ukol sa pagnanasa. Unang isinilid sa dibdib
Ang mga simpleng bagay na minahal noong kabataan: ang paghabol
Sa napatid na guryon, ang hindi pag-alintana sa kalabit ng mga tinik,

Ang pagyukod ng makahiya sa talampakan. Ganoon lamang ang kalayaan.
Hindi nakikipagpatintero sa mga anino. Hindi nakapiit sa multiplisidad
Ng mga huwad na hubog. Halos babasagin ngunit orihinal.