IBUKALAN MINERS
His soles were cracked as land of long summer
Yet, the mud seems cannot defy his goal
From the scorching of the sun, he sweats his agony
Along with his carabao, travels home when the sun goes down
Folks feel better when new moon comes
For in the morning, still soaking their palm
The small green grasses planted a cube apart
Building mountain, such treasure of jade
The greenish mountain turns amber and gold
After the fading of six long full moons
With the women’s sharp-bladed tools
Mining the treasure, a precious they prove
Their lips painted with pink and red
Eyes are gloomy in the sunny day
Pounding the gold in the pestle stone
Hard and thorough or pain to cure
Yet, again and again, diamonds they cause.
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