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Behind
the hotel, in a muddy side road is a row of frail embarrassed shacks
-
held up by rope and fervent prayers.
For all her 10 years she's
lived here.
Rain drumming down on and through the rusty corrugated
iron rooves -
Swift rivulets are guided into stripe-like gushing
cascades down upon the land.
And
she goes, laughing with her baby brother,
And she throws her
ragged clothes aside.
And she goes, laughing with her baby
brother,
And she throws her ragged clothes aside and they splash
through the puddles.
Dancing,
naked in the rain.
Dancing, naked in the rain.
Dancing. The
rain will be gone tomorrow.
Dancing. This chance may not
come again for some time.
"My
name is Ana" she answers the foreign stranger.
"I don't
want to speak English" she explains.
The sky has been wrung
out, her clothes been dried by another sun-baked day.
She proffers
polite excuses then bows down to familiar household chores.
He
climbs the stairs to his hotel room.
She may forget him.
He
will remember her.
And
she knows what is good and what is not.
And she grows on the
edge of Bacolod City.
And she knows her place in this world.
As
she grows will she recall her happy childhood days of dancing?
Dancing,
naked in the rain.
Dancing, naked in the rain.
Dancing. This
chance may not come again.
Dancing. Come on - let's go
dance in the rain - just for today.
Just for today.
Who knows
what tomorrow will bring or take away?
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