Ride toward the sunset; go down west, young man.
It seemed to be good advice then, still is. Always
face the sun, and you will leave longer shadows.
Tillers of old walked toward the sunrise with their seeds,
and were told that Ra will nurture them and their grain,
and their valleys will never want of gourd or oases again.
Terrace gleaners bow toward the waning sun as it sets
to signal the trek home for feasts and dance to the gong,
rice wine offered to Apo Init* and all their forebears.
It is the sun that meets the fishermen at dawn to launch
their foray into yet dark seas. The same sun warms their
weary backs at sundown when they haul their laden nets.
Are not days, after all, a counting of sunrises and sunsets?
After his darkest hours, does he not hope for sunrise?
At cockcrow, do these birds not herald a sun’s rise and fall?
Do rainbows not appear when the sun shines through
the rain---and it is always with us for good and ill---
will that pot of gold still be there at rainbow’s end?
Yet, for all that is magical in the worship of this Sun,
why are there infants and virgins still cut down
as sacrifices for a god that may one day go, or has gone?
---Albert B. Casuga