Mountain Pond. Mt Pulog, Benguet
The Dying Pond
“Death be not proud,” this dreaded fate defied;
In death something rises at its side,
As on a dying pond, a swamp in its place
Grows, dying in peace and grace.
And the watery grave dries into grassland
Where roam the roofs and claws in band;
And the winged sweep the air, retreating
On the trees nearby and advancing.
Yes, the trees they come when the wind blows;
They ride on furs, beaks and furs;
A woodland soon rises from the trees’ breath