In twenty-sixteen the strongman swore,
To end the drugs, to fight a war.
Rodrigo spoke with iron tongue,
And many cheered, both old and young.
Yet promises turned into dread,
As alleys filled with countless dead.
‘Tokhang’ they named, death’s knocking door,
Where suspects fell, bloodstains covered the floor.
The numbers climbed, the cries grew loud,
Six thousand named, yet far more shroud.
Some say twice, some say thrice more slain,
While families wept through endless pain.
In Davao’s mold, rewards were spread,
Money flows per suspect dead.
Whispers claimed the state gave pay,
For corpses lined the streets each day.
The Court in The Hague took up the case,
To weigh the crimes, to seek disgrace.
By: Vincent InfanteA reminder that no such politician will turn immaculate
Yet hearings stall, the clock runs late,
While justice waits at history’s gate.
They paused the trial, his health in doubt,
A frail old man the judges scout.
But grieving mothers ask, “if truth must wait,
Do graves grow cold, do wrongs abate?”
As their children were killed cold-blooded,
The old man sits comfortably in his warm bed.
Each passing month, the hope turns thin,
As silence shields remembered sin.
For justice slowed is justice strained,
A fragile trust that can’t be feigned.
And though the guilty stand accused,
The waiting leaves the wounds unbruised.
A nation aches for what is right,
But finding delay has dimmed the hope found in the light.
The Filipinos were manipulated in hope of saving their kin,
In Duterte’s brutality dressed in sheep’s skin.
