by Tanya Amanda Loyola
(Cebu City, Philippines)
Drifting down the riverI saw a dead wood there.Seemingly insignificant, lifeless and so bare. Flowing down that riverTrusting in the flowNot knowing where it's heading, Not knowing where to go. My heart cries out to itFor what it used to be;A strong and sturdy spectacle,A marvelous old tree. Who stood in glorious majestyTo praise God and serve men.A tree who stood against stormsas bravely as it can. But now I gaze with pityupon this useless woodafloating by the riverwondering as I stood; How it came to beThis driftwood that I seeFlowing down the river Bare as it can be? The leaves, the fruits, the birdsAre but a memoryFor this solitary driftwood...I wept for this poor tree. As it drifts along the riverA hand then pulled it out.And the snipping, carving, strippingTurned it inside out! The pain was so unbearablefor the Hand tore it piece by pieceThen the Hand said He's the ArtistAnd the wood His masterpiece. 'Twas then it stopped its struggleAs it slowly realizedThat it was more than just a driftwoodIn this Great Artist's eyes. Then I saw beyond its barenessI saw beyond its painI saw from His perspectiveIts life was not in vain. So to the other driftwoodKnow that it's not the endTrust the river as it takes youStraight to the Artist's hand. And all these I took in quietlySeeing more than what I used to seeAs the truth came slowly, gentlyThat this driftwood...Alas, is me!
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