The poetic struggle that was Alex Remollino’s life

Comrade Alex? He was a hardworking journalist, courageous activist, and a prolific poet. His work touched many lives. He never missed rallies and never missed deadlines. He was kind to his friends. And above all he never failed to smile. This is why he was admired by many, including me. But the truth is, I never met Alex. No, we never met. We were never introduced. But I’m sure we’ve crossed paths in one of the rallies we attended. I never talked to him about his work. But we would have gotten along, I’m sure. I never praised him about his poetry in person. But I am impressed by his style. Nevertheless, because of what everyone has been writing about him, I’ve started to know more about him and have started to feel we were close friends. The more photos of him I see, the deeper the pain I feel. The more of his articles I read, the more I feel the loss. And the more poems of him I read, the more I feel like comparing his life to poetry. Alex’s life was a well-written poem. It was poetic. It started with a few seemingly meaningless words. Some words were unfit and had to be replaced. His life was not confined to one stanza. It had several and each played a critical role that contributed to the overall meaning of the poem. And above all, the experience did not end with reading the poem. Even after the poet had gone, the reader is left inspired. Indeed, the poem even pushes the reader to write his own. Alex is gone but his life continues to serve as an inspiration. I am one of many who was inspired by his life. And in the brief time and my superficial knowledge of him, here is my tribute*. *This is supposed to end with a poem. This entry was originally written in Filipino: http://bit.ly/alexremollino However, I have not been able to translate the poem into English. If you would like to take a shot at translating, please let me know so we can work on it together. Thank you.