In our legends, the mountain is alive—we call her
Makiling, a spirit shrouded in white mist. Sighs
of lush green crawl over her slopes in abundance,
and the whorls of age in trees spin in reverse
as she remembers

the scars that brushed against her base in the ‘40s,
a guerrilla camp propped up against the cloak
of nature. Resist, resist, resist, they said, blood
blooming red on the green.
She remembers

yet another camp—one for prisoners. Concrete
pounding on the fresh dirt path, men’s bare,
calloused feet scarred by hard labour. Treading
on Makiling’s body, guns to their backs
as she remembers

the liberation swelling to collapse. Soldiers
scurried free, occupying wrath bending
toward the civilians beloved by Makiling. Prayers
to be spared fell into silence.
She remembers

the liberation swelling to an imitation
of freedom. Land beneath Makiling was reduced
to rubble, blood dissipating in the depths
of the once-clear lake at her feet
as she remembers

trees standing tall. Leaves fluttering
in whistling wind. The camps are often forgotten,
as many things are. But she remembers.
She sees people picking flowers and tilling land.
She remembers

how liberation became synonymous
with rebuilding, how life dwelled in the gaps
between greenery. Before. During. After. Now
scholars study Makiling, but not always her memories—
we live after decades of barely-there thriving,

remember the red blood of war,
and fight to defend her green:

because the mountain is alive and so are we.