The Woman* at Midnight

With weeping eyes
The woman sat
Beside the old
Tree where midnight
Crosses in a
Fleeting second of
An enchanting dance.

Caught in a
Rhythm of the
Rustling leaves and
The gush of
Fog, blown by
The wind; the
Woman remained motionless,
Her white face
Stripped of emotions.

Just as the
Heart ceased to
Be part of
The system that
Makes her feel –
Her round eyes
Flooded – poured like
Rain that she
Never knew was
Within her - deepest.

She never spoke,
Stayed seated - unmoving,
Not looking at
The Path where
The Mango tree
Stood behind her
Shadows with barely
A shaft of light
To show a
Melancholic figure of
A woman who
In time has
Appeared only during
The battle between
Night and day.

With only the
Remains of the
Light from a
Few feet beaming
In the momentary
Gust of the
Night air – moving
Leaves to reveal
A face of
The woman – unknown
To all those
Who pass by.

She stopped crying
After a while,
Blinked twice, bringing
The time to
Standstill – like her;
Simply at the
End to realize
That she isn’t
Of this world
But a figment
Of one’s imagination.
She slowly disappears,
As the morning
Draws to a-near.

I walk past
– In the dark,
Deaf to her
Crying, unfeeling to
Her mere inexistence.


* To reach the ancestral house in Sorsogon, one has to pass by a big old Mango tree where a ghost of a woman is said to appear every midnight and there after.