I.
White with a stripe of ocean blue,
A pair once boxed in quiet grace—
I wore them when the year was new,
A gift I feared too bold to face.
II.
My old soles bore the stains of toil,
Threadbare, but steady in the fray.
These newcomers first kissed the soil
Of Iloilo’s Christmas Day.
III.
Blood on the toe box, subtle red—
From patients reaching for relief,
While I knelt low or bowed my head
Beside a pulse, beneath their grief.
IV.
They walked where fields and city meet—
Through rows of trikes and rough terrain,
By sidewalks cracked beneath my feet,
And alleys washed with evening rain.
V.
The stairs that creaked in borrowed homes,
The Latin chants from church nearby,
The sewing hum, like whispered poems,
The silent nights I’d question why.
VI.
Now here they sit on colder floors,
Across the world, but not estranged—
Though gout once kept them near the door,
They’ve borne with me through all I’ve changed.
VII.
Baskug, like faith, they held their ground—
Though scuffed, they kept my purpose true.
A quiet strength, without the sound,
They marched with me. I march with you.