And he that made man smiled when he saw him.
The first was white and pale. Out of the fire
Of his desires, he snatched him, the early fruit
Of waiting, poor reward for his patience.
The second, black and burned from so much care
And eagerness, for he had waited long.
The third was timed well, none of the delay
Of second effort or the hurry of the first.
And he that made man smiled when he saw him.
Here at last was the fruit of all he dreamed.
For in this sand the music of the green leaves,
Hissed the brave saga of torrential rains,
Blew the wild typhoons from the north and south,
His skin embronzed by redness of the sun
That disked the edge of east seas at dawn.
First lump of good brown earth that helt the touch
Of the first pioneers in wide-winger boats
From lands beyond the soitheast. This the clod
Rain-softened, hardened with continuous sun,
Leavened with flowers, plowed with raging storm,
Lashed by the wild waves rising from the depths;
Darkened with forest light, made gentle with the breath
Of islands that surrender themselves to the sun.
Through this brown system flowed the centuries
And through him raced the anger of the spear
Of the dark men that tennated the hills;
And in him rage the ire of Limahong;
And in him surged the blood of traders bold
Who girdled the islands with fast-sailing boats;
The blood of Malays tangled in his veins
And in him sang with melody sure and swift
The hot libido of the conqueror.
This was the man who wrote with pagan blood
The story of Mactan; this was he who trod
The hills and forest of the Cordilleras
To trust with death; the Katipunero
Armored with God and sinewed with high love
For this fair land, bracing hunger and the fire
Of grim artillery; this is the same hard clay
That vased the white soul of Jose Rizal.
Workers and sages nobly work on this.
This is the stuff to mixture and remold.
Breathe thou on this breezy gentleness
Of sampaguitas swooning in the night,
The strength of tamaraws from the wilds
The grit of old molaves that defy
The brunt of storms; harden it with sun
Temper it with Godhood, through it breathe
The leavening light of sweet intelligence
Like April sunshine on our fields of rice.
This is he who will unfold the dream
Unblossomed in the womb of centuries
And put his willing shoulders to the wheel
And pull the wagon out of the mud and slime
Of futile years. This is the stuff to build
The ramparts that will guard those thousand isles,
Bastion each rocky headland from the foe,
And thwart the future blitzkriegs of the air
And build a gleaming empire in the sun.
