R. Zulueta Da Acosta
Not yet, Rizal, not yet. Sleep not in peace;
There are a thousand waters to be spanned;
There are a thousand mountains to be crossed;
There are a thousand cross to be borne.
Our shoulders are not strong; our sinews are
Grown flaccid with dependence, smug with ease
Under another’s wing. Rest not in peace;
Not yet, Rizal, not yet. The land has need
Of young blood – and, what younger than your own,
Forever spilled in the great name of freedom.
Forever oblate on the altar of
The free? Not you alone, Rizal. O souls
And spirits of the martyred brave, arise!
Arise and scour the land! Shed once again
Your willing blood! Infuse the vibrant red
Into our thin anemic veins ; until
We pick up your Promethean tools and strong,
Out of the depthless matrix of your faith
In us, and on the silent cliffs of freedom,
We carve, for all time your marmoreal dream!
Until our people, seeing, are become
Like the molave, firm, resilient, staunch
Rising on the hillside, unafraid,
Strong in its own fibre; yes, like the molave!
Not yet, Rizal, not yet.
The glory hour will come.
Out of the silent dreaming,
From the seven thousand fold silence,
We shall emerge, saying, WE ARE FILIPINOS,
And no longer be ashamed.
Sleep not in peace,
The dream is not yet fully carved.
Hard the wood, but harder the blows.
Yet the molave will stand;
Yet the molave monument will rise.
And gods walk on brown legs.