Like the Molave

Not yet, Rizal. Sleep not in peace;
There are a thousand waters to be spanned;
There are a thousand mountains to be crossed;
There are a thousand crossed to be borne.
Our shoulders are not strong; our sinews are
Grown flaccid with dependence, smug with ease
Under another's wing.
Rest not in peace;
Not yet Rizal, not yet. The land had need
Of young blood and what younger than your own.
Forever spilled in the great name of freedom,
Forever oblate on the altar of the free?
Not yet alone, Rizal. O souls.
And spirits of the martyred brave, arise!
Arise and sour the land! Shed once again
Your willing lood! Infuse the vibrant red
Into our thin anemic veins; until
We pick up your Promethean tools and, strong,
Out of the depthless matrix of your faith
In us, and on the silent cliffs of freedom,
We carve for all time your marmoreal dream!
Until your people, seeing, are become
Like the molave, firm, resilent, staunch,
Rising on the hillside, unafraid,
Strong in his own fiber; yes, like the molave!