Sunset and Evening Star

Winter and sublime terror to the poor.

And my gentle brother who was sick in bed

Turned to the broken window and the thick

Fog that weakened the sun, twisting visions

Of our early days in the little grass house.

He spoke of our other brother, the one who died

Hating greed and money; the native village

And the immigrants who went to settle there.

I sat and listened. Sometimes a bold image

Evoked complete surrender. I would scream

Fearing the lost was lost forever, till the noise

Submerged the trembling voice again.

CARLOS BULOSAN

About this dream-world of our early long days

The October dream-world of our built-up future

Gained a bolder reality in the wonder of new friends,

The convulsive hate they manifested, the love

And thoughts they convened in new living-ways

To meet the revolving crisis of the years.

While my brother dreamed, memory of pain

Explored the aching stream of our relationship;

Our dispassionate arguments, our hurtings at times,

And, because we felt our imprisonment, our hates and fears. . . .

So I waited and watched the cold sunset and evening star

Embrace in light and darkness the heart of America