A Conversation with Andrés

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Andrés,
what did you feel
when they read the verdict—
not in Spanish,
but in the tongue of your mother,
your comrades,
your brothers-in-arms?

Was it the sound of paper tearing
or of a nation
turning its face
from its own reflection?

Did your hands twitch,
remembering the feel
of the bolo’s hilt,
its weight suddenly useless
against signatures
and sealed orders?

Tell me—
did you still believe
in the Republic that day,
when your name was written
in its death roll
by men who once
shouted Kalayaan! beside you?

And Procopio,
standing beside you
like a question
no one wanted to answer—
did he ask
why loyalty folds faster
than a worn-out bandera?

You, who opened
the veins of this country
so freedom might run through it—
was it bitter,
that the revolution
could not save
its own father?

And yet,
you did not cry out.
The hills of Cavite
held your silence
like a rosary tucked in the palm
of a dying man.

Two days later,
they led you into the forest—
not to be buried,
but to become part of the roots.

And still,
I imagine you walking,
head high,
saying nothing—
because the truest patriots
don’t beg for mercy.
They watch history
misunderstand them,
and choose
to bleed anyway.