(A Poem By Gilbert Labo Obal)
J...
I...
H...
G...
F...
....Ǝ!
A breath held, a moment poised,
Greatness about to be voiced.
Histor-Ǝ etched in light,
For the faithful, a sacred rite.
The final chord, the last refrain,
An overdrive through sun and rain.
From Kalayaan halls, echoing dreams,
To MOA's stage, bursting at the seams.
From the Sunken Garden, green and deep,
To the rock altar where legends sleep.
The stage awakens, a vibrant gleam,
Bathed in laser, electric stream.
Behold, four Heads in the luminous haze,
Their imprint on a memory we can't erase
A guitar's cry, a familiar start,
A steady pulse that grips the heart.
The drum's deep thrum, a grounding beat,
The bass line weaving, bittersweet.
These threads entwined, a sonic embrace,
Becoming one with the voice that fills the space.
Becoming one with a hundred thousand cries,
A chorus soaring to moonless skies.
Each verse is a story, etched in time,
Each chorus is a shared, anthemic climb.
Every coda, a lingering sigh,
Each fade, a whisper, as moments fly.
Every fade... a yearning deep,
As if stars from heaven began to weep,
Falling like styro snow, fragile and white.
Lightyears away, yet burning so bright.
Then eyes closed tight, a fleeting pause,
A collective breath, beyond all cause.
Images flicker in nostalgic gloom,
A vintage car going to the moon.
A green-haired muse in youthful spark,
Bathroom hoops in the fading dark.
Fruitfairies dancing, amens whispered low,
Wishing wells gleaming, masks in a row.
A dishwasher's tale, a poignant end,
Where the ordinary and magic transcend.
Within the music, a sanctuary found,
Where common ground became profound.
Each song is unfurled, a spirit unbound,
A vibrant life on hallowed sound.
THE ƎRASERHEADS, a gift freely given,
Minds liberated, souls shriven.
And in that unified, electric air,
No single heart felt lonely there.
Ely, fingers dancing, sticker-happy piano ablaze,
Marcus, guitar wailing through a sonic maze.
Buddy, harmonies weaving, a steady hand,
Raimund, thunderous rhythms across the land.
The final "TANG-INA!" unleashed,
The final strains of "EL BIMBO" appeased.
Three more songs offered, a grateful art,
Seemed a fitting farewell, etched in every heart.
Then bursts of fire, a dazzling display,
Painting the darkness in a vibrant way.
Gilbert Labo Obal
2009
