My first attempt at translation (Wala Nang Tao sa Sta. Filomena)

I've taken up myself the challenge I've posted to my LitForm Students, and that is to translate the Joey Ayala classic, Wala Nang Tao Sa Sta. Filomena. If I only knew it would move me to tears, I wouldnt have done it here at the college faculty room and have Sche and H laugh at me.

Sabi ni Sche, "Ano ka ba, Dianne!"
"Nakakaiyak kaya, super!" I answered back. H was just giggling at my silliness. I told them to just read it. "Basahin nyo nang maiyak din kayo."

Anyway, I gave it as an assignment which they're supposed to share later. I'll post what they have done later on. Right now, I'll just post mine. Apologies to Maestro Joey Ayala if this version fails to do justice to the beauty of your poetry. Thank you so much, this is among the most beautiful lyrics ever written! (By the way, it is just impossible to retain meaning in translation. So you may check out the original text in Filipino here and go to this site for chords to the song).

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There is No One Left in Sta. Filomena

Joey Ayala

The lonely swallow flies alone

Its shadow crosses the dry rice fields

The only answer to his cries

are silence

and the rustling of the wind on leaves.

It flies overhead for one last time,

One last glance at the town below

at the huts strengthened by nipa and bamboo,

“Farewell...farewell,” sings the swallow

But no one hears and sees it fly away.

Because there is no one left in Sta. Filomena

No one will reap the earth's offerings.

The stalks of grain are bent in sorrow

waiting for the scythe and the hand.

The fruits of the mango and guava

are ripening fast, harvested by the wind

and thrown unto the ground.

The sun sucks its freshness and sweetness

and leaves its seed longing,

For the coming of rains

to settle on fertile grounds

to draw life out from the dead.

Once again blood will run through their veins

through their roots in the meadow

Yet...all this will go to waste,

Because there is no one left in Sta. Filomena

No one will reap the earth's offerings

The stalks of grain are bowed down, surrendering

offering their lives to the scythe and the fist.

The lonely swallow flies, cries

“Where are you, villagers? Why are you hiding?

It is time... it is time

to go back to what you have left behind.”

Listen to the cry of the poor swallow...

let us listen to the lament of the lonely swallow.

Trans. by Dianne Siriban