Heap

The failed dreams of OFWs
resemble what Juan Luna painted-
they are corpses dragged
and piled up on some dark corner,
their dried up blood writing their grief
on the hard earth.

Though unable to tell how many they were
on the heap, this is certain-
the heap is rising.

Juan Luna painted a solitary woman
with a green scarf, wailing
close to it
perhaps the mothers, wives, and children
they left behind.

With swords in hand, their blades
protruding from their red cape
covering their breastplate,
they wait

for the door to open
rushing them into a clash of blades
and clangs of swords.

They will slaughter each other's dreams
until their breastplate wear only one red
from both cape and blood
gushing out of fatal wounds.

Some will come home dead
both body and dreams.