Shepherd
by Lamberto E. Antonio
translation by April Pagaling
Riding the carabao under shafts of light
the west that burns red on the shepherd’s face,
is a song escaping into air.
I heard it when a woman uttered the same shrill cry
her face scoured by wind and chaff;
I heard it when a man blew air
clipped from following the flow.
And I found myself whistling too:
A young boy back from hunting
Eggs of the sparrow and herons —
Here on the crown of the hill, alone,
picking burrs from my clothes.
trying to read what stars have always known.


Pastol
ni Lamberto E. Antonio
Sakay ng kalabaw na may tarak na silahis,
Ang pulang kanluran sa pisngi ng pastol
Ay kundimang maisisipol.
Narinig ko nang sumipol ang isang babaing
Binangas ng hangin at gilik ang mukha;
Narinig ko nang sumipol ang isang lalaking
Hinukos ng pagbuntot sa araro.
At nasumpungan ko ang sariling sumisipol:
Isang batang nagmula sa paghahanap
Ng itlog ng maya at tagak —
Nakatalungko at nag-aalis ng amorseko sa damit
Sa puyo ng burol habang nanghuhula
Sa salaysay ng mga bituin.

Notes:
At first glance, Lamberto Antonio’s “Pastol” feels like stepping into an Amorsolo painting. You know the ones – golden light, carabaos in rice fields, that idealized Filipino rural life we’ve all seen in museums.
But Antonio, a multi-awarded Palanca winner, is playing a clever trick on us. He sets up this pastoral scene that looks calm enough, but then he pulls the rug out from under us. Like when you watch a Hitchcock movie, everything seems fine until you see one thing that really bugs you.
The genius lies in how he builds it. A shepherd under the setting sun, whistling a tune. Simple enough, right? But wait – that whistle is actually a kundiman, a love song that historically carried messages of revolution and pain beneath its romantic surface. And those “piercing rays” of light? They’re not just pretty – they’re stabbing through the scene.
As you move through the poem, what seemed like peaceful whistling becomes something else entirely. The woman’s face isn’t just touched by wind – it’s “scoured.” The man isn’t just working – his body is “clipped” from following the plow. These aren’t songs anymore. They’re cries.
The real gut punch comes at the end. Our speaker, alone on a hill, picking burrs from clothes after finding no eggs (failure, emptiness), looks up at stars that hold stories he can’t quite understand. It’s a moment of profound isolation masked as a pastoral scene.
Reading Antonio is like that moment when clouds pass over the sun and suddenly the familiar becomes strange. Each time you return to “Pastol,” you might notice something new – a word choice that shifts meaning, an image that isn’t quite what it seemed. It’s poetry that rewards patience and multiple readings, revealing new layers of understanding depending on where you are in life.
The true art here? Making us feel the dread without ever naming it.