[APH] Ulan
Titolo: Ulan
Kategorya: Axis Powers Hetalia
Karaker/Pairing: Spain, Philippines (ni peculuiarities ) and Philippines (ni muffincaeks ) like...a mention
Uri/Marka/Babala: General/G/wala
Buod/Sipi: ”Juan huffed and leaned back against the mango tree. Annoyed but resigned, he closed his eyes and listened to Antonio’s song, glittering against the light pitter patter just beyond their leafy roof.”
A/N: Poem by Hernani, Guipúzcoa (1911- Madrid 1991). Translation by Shirimin, Gabriel Celaya
Ulan
It was absurd, Juan thought, Antonio would be lounging beside him on this tree. Then again, he had to consider they were not normal beings. They have the best and the worst people inside them. Indeed, nations did not have differences.
Still, it was quite unnerving. The day had started as how Juan usually did. He was up by four, tending the fields of a humble landowner who was falling victim to taxes heaped by the friars. The air was crisp and cool. The tang in the wind told him they’d have a light shower in the afternoon. He brought his carabao in earlier than usual and rested under the mango tree around nine.
Juan had woken up to a guitar strumming and the strong scent of wet earth beneath him. Light rain was falling overhead, slipping through the gaps in the thick canopy of leaves and falling on his face. Disconcerted, he looked to his right and found none other than the personification of Spain singing a soft song.
The peace and familiarity was ironic. Juan couldn’t place his finger on the reason why.
“…anong ginagawa mo dito?” he asked his colonizer in the commoners tongue.
Antonio tried to match it. The rest of him was not as dark as his outcasts after all. “Bakit? Hindi ko ba maaaring bisitahin ang aking unico hijo?”
Juan frowned. “Sa pagkakaalam ko, hindi ako ang unico hijo mo.”
“Aba!” Antonio laughed sheepishly like a parent who’s been found out falsely flattering his child. “Gusto mo bang maging unico hijo ko?”
“…depende.” In that single word, and the tone with which it was spoken conveyed a spectra of many many things spanning almost three hundred years. Juan knew Antonio knew them well, but refused to acknowledge anything that didn’t come with monetary supplement.
“Huwag muna ngayon, Juan,” Antonio replied quietly, mellowing down. He hoisted his guitar up his knee and gave him an apologetic grin. “Maganda ang araw.”
Juan huffed and leaned back against the mango tree. Annoyed but resigned, he closed his eyes and listened to Antonio’s song, glittering against the light pitter patter just beyond their leafy roof.
Llueve y llueve.
Nada pasa
Es decir, pasa la nada
Llueve tan, tan de verdad, que se descansa
- - - -
Juan opens his eyes and lets the movement and the sound of the old truck sink into his waking brain. Where is he going this time? Ah yes, Bulacan. Maria could very well take care of happenings in Malacañang and the cities. His only use these modern days is perhaps to help any honest one in any honest way he can.
He has a penchant for farmers since he was young. There is no explanation there.
“Juan! Mabuti’t nakarating ka!” An old uncle greets him once the truck stops and Juan hops off. They watch, somewhat sated, as it rumbles away on the highway.
“Mano po,” he says respectfully and the old uncle claps him on the back.
“Sus! Ayan ka nanaman. Pero sige na, anihan na. Andun sina Kaka sa bukid, kailangang kailangan nila tulong mo.”
Juan smiles and sighs internally. He cannot blame humans for being innately self centered. It’s quite endearing. They make their way over trips and trails and worn, dusty bike routes to fields as wide as the eye can see, seemingly untouched by time.
Work begins at nine and ends at four, when the uncle’s wife calls the workers in for champorado. The weather’s crazy now, she says. The mornings are freezing while the afternoons are sweltering hot. The workers agree as they slurp chocolate rice and gossip like the women. But where is Juan? The wife asks.
They’re not sure. Probably still out in the fields.
That boy works too hard.
Juan has fallen asleep under an old mango tree. At his age, he’s seen a lot of mango trees come and go, but he’s pretty sure this particular one might be as old as him. A June memory slips into his easing mind, and unwittingly, he sings a song to the skies.
Ulan ng ulan
Walang nangyayari
Ibig sabihin, nangyayari ang wala
Ang lakas ng ulan, talaga, ang sarap magpahinga
It was nice to think that things were so simple, yet meaningful in their nothingness, perhaps life would be much easier.
Juan sighs and breathes the air. It smells of the far off sea and the crisp dried-leafy scent that came along with sunsets. He remembers days blending into dark clouds, chilly walls and soft, warm beds. He finds himself wishing for the rains to come.
WAKAS
Kategorya: Axis Powers Hetalia
Karaker/Pairing: Spain, Philippines (ni peculuiarities ) and Philippines (ni muffincaeks ) like...a mention
Uri/Marka/Babala: General/G/wala
Buod/Sipi: ”Juan huffed and leaned back against the mango tree. Annoyed but resigned, he closed his eyes and listened to Antonio’s song, glittering against the light pitter patter just beyond their leafy roof.”
A/N: Poem by Hernani, Guipúzcoa (1911- Madrid 1991). Translation by Shirimin, Gabriel Celaya
Ulan
It was absurd, Juan thought, Antonio would be lounging beside him on this tree. Then again, he had to consider they were not normal beings. They have the best and the worst people inside them. Indeed, nations did not have differences.
Still, it was quite unnerving. The day had started as how Juan usually did. He was up by four, tending the fields of a humble landowner who was falling victim to taxes heaped by the friars. The air was crisp and cool. The tang in the wind told him they’d have a light shower in the afternoon. He brought his carabao in earlier than usual and rested under the mango tree around nine.
Juan had woken up to a guitar strumming and the strong scent of wet earth beneath him. Light rain was falling overhead, slipping through the gaps in the thick canopy of leaves and falling on his face. Disconcerted, he looked to his right and found none other than the personification of Spain singing a soft song.
The peace and familiarity was ironic. Juan couldn’t place his finger on the reason why.
“…anong ginagawa mo dito?” he asked his colonizer in the commoners tongue.
Antonio tried to match it. The rest of him was not as dark as his outcasts after all. “Bakit? Hindi ko ba maaaring bisitahin ang aking unico hijo?”
Juan frowned. “Sa pagkakaalam ko, hindi ako ang unico hijo mo.”
“Aba!” Antonio laughed sheepishly like a parent who’s been found out falsely flattering his child. “Gusto mo bang maging unico hijo ko?”
“…depende.” In that single word, and the tone with which it was spoken conveyed a spectra of many many things spanning almost three hundred years. Juan knew Antonio knew them well, but refused to acknowledge anything that didn’t come with monetary supplement.
“Huwag muna ngayon, Juan,” Antonio replied quietly, mellowing down. He hoisted his guitar up his knee and gave him an apologetic grin. “Maganda ang araw.”
Juan huffed and leaned back against the mango tree. Annoyed but resigned, he closed his eyes and listened to Antonio’s song, glittering against the light pitter patter just beyond their leafy roof.
Llueve y llueve.
Nada pasa
Es decir, pasa la nada
Llueve tan, tan de verdad, que se descansa
- - - -
Juan opens his eyes and lets the movement and the sound of the old truck sink into his waking brain. Where is he going this time? Ah yes, Bulacan. Maria could very well take care of happenings in Malacañang and the cities. His only use these modern days is perhaps to help any honest one in any honest way he can.
He has a penchant for farmers since he was young. There is no explanation there.
“Juan! Mabuti’t nakarating ka!” An old uncle greets him once the truck stops and Juan hops off. They watch, somewhat sated, as it rumbles away on the highway.
“Mano po,” he says respectfully and the old uncle claps him on the back.
“Sus! Ayan ka nanaman. Pero sige na, anihan na. Andun sina Kaka sa bukid, kailangang kailangan nila tulong mo.”
Juan smiles and sighs internally. He cannot blame humans for being innately self centered. It’s quite endearing. They make their way over trips and trails and worn, dusty bike routes to fields as wide as the eye can see, seemingly untouched by time.
Work begins at nine and ends at four, when the uncle’s wife calls the workers in for champorado. The weather’s crazy now, she says. The mornings are freezing while the afternoons are sweltering hot. The workers agree as they slurp chocolate rice and gossip like the women. But where is Juan? The wife asks.
They’re not sure. Probably still out in the fields.
That boy works too hard.
Juan has fallen asleep under an old mango tree. At his age, he’s seen a lot of mango trees come and go, but he’s pretty sure this particular one might be as old as him. A June memory slips into his easing mind, and unwittingly, he sings a song to the skies.
Ulan ng ulan
Walang nangyayari
Ibig sabihin, nangyayari ang wala
Ang lakas ng ulan, talaga, ang sarap magpahinga
It was nice to think that things were so simple, yet meaningful in their nothingness, perhaps life would be much easier.
Juan sighs and breathes the air. It smells of the far off sea and the crisp dried-leafy scent that came along with sunsets. He remembers days blending into dark clouds, chilly walls and soft, warm beds. He finds himself wishing for the rains to come.
WAKAS