WISHING AND HOPING (Burt Bacharach) Dionne Warwick

Wishing and hoping and thinking and praying
Planning and dreaming each night of his charms
That won't get you into his arms
So if you're looking to find love you can share
All you got to do is hold him and kiss him and love him
And show him that you care

Show him that you care just for him
Do the things he likes to do
Wear your hair just for him, 'cause
You won't get him
Thinking and a-praying, wishing and a-hoping

'Cause wishing and hoping and thinking and praying
Planning and dreaming his kisses will start
That won't get you into his heart
So if you're thinking of how great true love is
All you got to do is hold him and kiss him and squeeze him and love him
Yeah, just do it
And after you do, you will be his

You got to show him that you care just for him
Do the things he likes to do
Wear your hair just for him, 'cause
You won't get him
Thinking and a-praying, wishing and a-hoping

'Cause wishing and hoping and thinking and praying
Planning and dreaming his kisses will start
That won't get you into his heart
So if you're thinking of how great true love is

All you got to do is hold him and kiss him and squeeze him and love him
Yeah, just do it
And after you do, you will be his
You will be his (2x)

About Dionne Warwick

The Impossible Dream

To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go

To right the unrightable wrong
To love pure and chaste from afar
To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star

This is my quest
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless
No matter how far

To fight for the right
Without question or pause
To be willing to march into Hell
For a heavenly cause

And I know if I'll only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I'm laid to my rest

And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star

My Teacher, My Hero by Marimar G. Corañez

Taon na nga ang ating  pinagsamahan
marami-rami na din ang ating napagdaanan
mga tawanan at ang ating mga kulitan
kung minsan pa nga'y kami inyong kinagagalitan

Sa kabila nito'y may nais kaming sabihin
dalawang salitang nais naming sambitin
sikapin man nami'y likas na mahiyain
“Salamat” at “Patawad”, oh kay hirap bigkasin

Marami pong salamat sa inyong mga turo
at walang sawang pag-saway upang kami'y matuto
kapag kami'y may problema laging nariyan ang inyong payo
kahit na nga ang iba dito'y kalokohan nalang ninyo

Patawarin niyo po kami, kung kami ay maingay
at kung sa inyo kami'y masyadong pasaway
kung minsan pa nga di maiwasan ang away
kaya ang tulang ito'y sa inyo aming alay

kayo ang aming gabay at ang aming patnubay
ang aming “ikalawang tatay at nanay”
at itong paaralan ang siyang pangalawang bahay
nagbibigay pag-asa sa aming mga buhay
Di nyo man kasing “sexy” si “catwoman”
O kasing “macho” ni “superman”
wala man kayong natatanging kapangyarihan
kayo pa rin ang “hero” namin kailanman

AYA NO TSUZUMI (THE DAMASK DRUM)

COURTIER.

          I am a courtier at the Palace of Kinomaru in the country of Chikuzen. You must know that in this place there is a famous pond called the Laurel Pond, where the royal ones often take their walks; so it happened that one day the old man who sweeps the garden here caught sight of the Princess. And from that time he has loved her with a love that gives his heart no rest.

          Some one told her of this, and she said, "Love's equal realm knows no divisions," and in her pity she said, "By that pond there stands a laurel-tree, and on its branches there hangs a drum. Let him beat the drum, and if the sound is heard in the Palace, he shall see my face again."

          I must tell him of this.

          Listen, old Gardener! The worshipful lady has heard of your love and sends you this message: "Go and beat the drum that hangs on the tree by the pond, and if the sound is heard in the Palace, you shall see my face again." Go quickly now and beat the drum!

GARDENER.

          With trembling I receive her words. I will go and beat the drum.

COURTIER.

          Look, here is the drum she spoke of. Make haste and beat it!

          (He leaves the GARDENER standing by the tree and seats himself at the foot of the "Waki's pillar.")

GARDENER.

          They talk of the moon-tree, the laurel that grows in the Garden of the Moon. . . . But for me          there is but one true tree, this laurel by the lake. Oh, may the drum that hangs on its branches give forth a mighty note, a music to bind up my bursting heart.

          Listen! the evening bell to help me chimes;
          But then tolls in
          A heavy tale of day linked on today,

CHORUS (speaking for the GARDENER).

          And hope stretched out from dusk to dusk.
          But now, a watchman of the hours, I beat
          The longed-for stroke.

GARDENER.

          I was old, I shunned the daylight,
          I was gaunt as an aged crane;
          And upon all that misery
          Suddenly a sorrow was heaped,
          The new sorrow of love.
          The days had left their marks,
          Coming and coming, like waves that beat on a sandy shore . . .

CHORUS.

          Oh, with a thunder of white waves
          The echo of the drum shall roll.

GARDENER.

          The after-world draws near me,
          Yet even now I wake not
          From this autumn of love that closes
          In sadness the sequence of my years.

CHORUS.

          And slow as the autumn dew
          Tears gather in my eyes, to fall
          Scattered like dewdrops from a shaken flower
          On my coarse-woven dress.
          See here the marks, imprint of tangled love,
          That all the world will read.

GARDENER.

          I said "I will forget,"

CHORUS.

          And got worse torment so
          Than by remembrance. But all in this world
          Is as the horse of the aged man of the land of Sai;
          And as a white colt flashes
          Past a gap in the hedge, even so our days pass. 

          And though the time be come,
          Yet can none know the road that he at last must tread,
          Goal of his dewdrop-life.
          All this I knew; yet knowing,
          Was blind with folly.

GARDENER.

          "Wake, wake," he cries--

CHORUS.

          The watchman of the hours--
          "Wake from the sleep of dawn!"
          And batters on the drum.
          For if its sound be heard, soon shall he see
          Her face, the damask of her dress
          Aye, damask! He does not know
          That on a damask drum he beats,
          Beats with all the strength of his hands, his aged hands,
          But bears no sound.
          "Am I grown deaf?" he cries, and listens, listens:
          Rain on the windows, lapping of waves on the pool
          Both these he hears, and silent only
          The drum, strange damask drum.
          Oh, will it never sound?
          I thought to beat the sorrow from my heart,
          Wake music in a damask drum; an echo of love
          From the voiceless fabric of pride!

GARDENER.

          Longed for as the moon that hides
          In the obstinate clouds of a rainy night
          Is the sound of the watchman's drum,
          To roll the darkness from my heart.

CHORUS.

          I beat the drum. The days pass and the hours.
          It was yesterday, and it is to-day.

GARDENER.

          But she for whom I wait

CHORUS.

          Comes not even in dream. At dawn and dusk

GARDENER.

          No drum sounds.

CHORUS.

          She has not come. Is it not sung that those
          Whom love has joined
          Not even the God of Thunder can divide?
          Of lovers, I alone
          Am guideless, comfortless.
          Then weary of himself and calling her to witness of his woe,
          "Why should I endure," he cried,
          "Such life as this?" and in the waters of the pond
          He cast himself and died.

(GARDENER leaves the stage.)

Enter the PRINCESS.

COURTIER.

          I would speak with you, madam.

          The drum made no sound, and the aged Gardener in despair has flung himself into the pond by the laurel tree, and died. The soul of .such a one may cling to you and do you injury. Go out and look upon him

PRINCESS (speaking wildly, already possessed by the GARDENER'S angry ghost, which speaks through her). 

          Listen, people, listen!
          In the noise of the beating waves
          I hear the rolling of a drum.
          Oh, joyful sound, oh joyful!
          The music of a drum,

COURTIER.

          Strange, strange!
          This lady speaks as one
          By phantasy possessed.
          What is amiss, what ails her?

PRINCESS.

          Truly, by phantasy I am possessed.
          Can a damask drum give sound?
          When I bade him beat what could not ring,
          Then tottered first my wits.

COURTIER.

          She spoke, and on the face of the evening pool
          A wave stirred.

PRINCESS.

          And out of the wave

COURTIER.

          A voice spoke.

          (The voice of the GARDENER is heard; as he gradually advances along the hashigakari it is seen that he wears a "demon mask," leans on a staff and carries the "demon mallet" at his girdle.)

GARDENER'S GHOST.

          I was driftwood in the pool, but the waves of bitterness

CHORUS.

          Have washed me back to the shore.

GHOST.

          Anger clings to my heart,
          Clings even now when neither wrath nor weeping
          Are aught but folly.

CHORUS.

          One thought consumes me,
          The anger of lust denied
          Covers me like darkness.
          I am become a demon dwelling
          In the hell of my dark thoughts,
          Storm-cloud of my desires.

GHOST.

          "Though the waters parch in the fields
          Though the brooks run dry,
          Never shall the place be shown
          Of the spring that feeds my heart." 
          So I had resolved. Oh, why so cruelly
          Set they me to win
          Voice from a voiceless drum,
          Spending my heart in vain?
          And I spent my heart on the glimpse of a moon that slipped
          Through the boughs of an autumn tree. 

CHORUS.

          This damask drum that hangs on the laurel-tree

GHOST.

          Will it sound, will it sound?

(He seizes the PRINCESS and drags her towards the drum.)

          Try! Strike it!

CHORUS.

          "Strike!" he cries;
          "The quick beat, the battle-charge!
          Loud, loud! Strike, strike," he rails,
          And brandishing his demon-stick
          Gives her no rest.
          "Oh woe!" the lady weeps,
          "No sound, no sound. Oh misery!" she wails.
          And he, at the mallet stroke, "Repent, repent!"

           Such torments in the world of night
          Abōrasetsu, chief of demons, wields,
          Who on the Wheel of Fire
          Sears sinful flesh and shatters bones to dust.
          Not less her torture now!
          "Oh, agony!" she cries, "What have I done,
          By what dire seed this harvest sown?"

GHOST.

          Clear stands the cause before you.

CHORUS.

          Clear stands the cause before my eyes;
               I know it now.
          By the pool's white waters, upon the laurel's bough
          The drum was hung.
          He did not know his hour, but struck and struck
          Till all the will had ebbed from his heart's core;
          Then leapt into the lake and died.
          And while his body rocked
          Like driftwood on the waves,
          His soul, an angry ghost,
          Possessed the lady's wits, haunted her heart with woe,
          The mallet lashed, as these waves lash the shore,
          Lash on the ice of the eastern shore.
          The wind passes; the rain falls
          On the Red Lotus, the Lesser and the Greater. 
          The hair stands up on my head.
          "The fish that leaps the falls
          To a fell snake is turned,"

The Crystal Heart - A Vietnamese Legend Told by Aaron Shepard

NARRATOR 1:  Long ago, in a palace by the Red River, there lived a great mandarin and his daughter, Mi Nuong.

NARRATOR 2:  Like other young ladies of her position, Mi Nuong was kept indoors, away from the eyes of admiring men.

                           She spent most of her time in her room at the top of a tower.

NARRATOR 3:  There she would sit on a bench by a moon-shaped window, reading or embroidering, chatting with her

                           maid, and gazing out often at the garden and the river.

NARRATOR 1:  One day as she sat there, a song floated to her from the distance, in a voice deep and sweet. She looked

                           out and saw a fishing boat coming up the river. She asked her maid,

MI NUONG:  Do you hear it? How beautifully he sings!

NARRATOR 2:  She listened again as the voice drew nearer.

TRUONG CHI:  (singing in the distance)

                              My love is like a blossom in the breeze.

                              My love is like a moonbeam on the waves.

MI NUONG:  He must be young and very handsome. (with a sudden thrill) Perhaps he knows I am here and sings it just

                        for me!

NARRATOR 3:  The maid’s eyes lit up.

MAID:  My lady, perhaps he’s a mandarin’s son in disguise—the man you are destined to marry!

NARRATOR 1:  Mi Nuong felt a flush on her face and a stirring in her heart.

NARRATOR 2:  She tried to make out the man’s features, but he was too far off to see clearly.

NARRATOR 3:  The boat and the song glided slowly up the river and away.

MI NUONG:  (softly) Yes. Perhaps he is.

NARRATOR 1:  All day long, Mi Nuong waited by the window, hoping to hear the singer again.

NARRATOR 2:  The next day she waited too, and the next.

NARRATOR 3:  But the voice did not return.

MI NUONG:  (sadly, to MAID) Why doesn’t he come?

NARRATOR 1:  As the days passed, Mi Nuong grew pale and weak. At last she went to her bed and stayed there.

NARRATOR 2:  The mandarin came to her.

MANDARIN:  Daughter, what’s wrong?

MI NUONG:  (faintly) It’s nothing, Father.

NARRATOR 3:  The mandarin sent for the doctor. But after seeing Mi Nuong, the doctor told him,

DOCTOR:  I can find no illness. And without an illness, I can offer no cure.

NARRATOR 1:  The weeks passed, and Mi Nuong grew no better.

NARRATOR 2:  Then one day her maid came before the mandarin.

MAID:  My lord, I know what ails your daughter. Mi Nuong is sick for love. To cure her, you must find the handsome

                           young man who sings these words. (recites)

                              My love is like a blossom in the breeze.

                              My love is like a moonbeam on the waves.

MANDARIN:  It will be done.

NARRATOR 3:  And he sent out a messenger at once.

NARRATOR 1:  Days later, the messenger returned.

MESSENGER:  (bowing) Lord, in no great house of this province does any young man know the song. But I found in a

                           nearby village a man who sings it, a fisherman named Truong Chi. I have brought him to the palace.

MANDARIN:  (in disbelief) A fisherman? Let me see him.

NARRATOR 2:  The messenger brought him in.

NARRATOR 3:  The fisherman stood uneasily, his eyes wide as they cast about the richly furnished room.

NARRATOR 1:  For a moment, the mandarin was too astounded to speak. The man was neither young nor handsome. His

                           clothes were ragged and he stank of fish.

NARRATOR 2:  “Certainly no match for my daughter!” thought the mandarin. “Somehow, she must not realize . . . .”

NARRATOR 3:  He gave his order to the messenger.

MANDARIN:  Bring the fisherman to my daughter’s door and have him sing his song.

NARRATOR 1:  Soon Truong Chi stood anxiously outside the young lady’s room. He could not understand why they’d

                           brought him here.

NARRATOR 2:  What could they want? He was just a fisherman, wishing only to make an honest living. He had hurt no

                           one, done nothing wrong!

NARRATOR 3:  At the messenger’s signal, he nervously started to sing.

TRUONG CHI:  (singing)

                              My love is like a blossom in the breeze.

                              My love is like a moonbeam on the waves.

NARRATOR 1:  In the room beyond the door, Mi Nuong’s eyes flew open.

MI NUONG:  (to MAID) He’s here! How can that be? Oh, quickly, help me dress!

NARRATOR 2:  Mi Nuong jumped from her bed. Never had she so swiftly clothed herself, put up her hair, made herself

                           up. By the time the song drew to a close, she looked like a heavenly vision in flowing robes.

MI NUONG:  Now, open the door!

NARRATOR 3:  Mi Nuong tried to calm her wildly beating heart. She forced herself to stand shyly, casting her eyes down in

                           the manner proper to a modest young lady.

NARRATOR 1:  As the door pulled open, Truong Chi shrank back, not knowing what to expect.

NARRATOR 2:  Then all at once he found himself gazing on the greatest beauty he had ever known.

NARRATOR 3:  He felt his heart leap, and in that moment, he fell deeply, hopelessly, desperately in love.

NARRATOR 1:  Mi Nuong could not wait a moment longer.

NARRATOR 2:  She lifted her eyes to look upon her beloved.

NARRATOR 3:  And in that moment, her eyes grew wide and she burst out laughing.

MI NUONG:  (laughs in astonishment)

NARRATOR 1:  A mandarin’s son? Her destined love?

NARRATOR 2:  Why, he was nothing but a common fisherman! How terribly, terribly silly she’d been!

NARRATOR 3:  Shaking with mirth at her folly, she turned her head away and whispered,

MI NUONG:  (whispering to MAID) Close the door.

NARRATOR 1:  The door shut in Truong Chi’s face. He stood there frozen, the young lady’s laughter ringing in his ears. He

                           felt his heart grow cold and hard.

NARRATOR 2:  Truong Chi was sent home. But he could not go on as before. Hardly eating or sleeping, he grew pale and ill.

                           He no longer cared if he lived or died.

NARRATOR 3:  And so, he died.

NARRATOR 1:  The villagers found him on the sleeping mat in his hut. On his chest sat a large crystal.

VILLAGER 1:  What is it?

VILLAGER 2:  It is his heart. The laugh of the mandarin’s daughter wounded it so deeply, it turned hard to stop the pain.

VILLAGER 3:  What do we do with it? It is very lovely. Like one of his songs!

VILLAGER 4:  We should put it in his boat, and let it float down to the sea.

NARRATOR 2:  At sundown, they set the crystal in the fisherman’s boat.

NARRATOR 3:  Then they pushed the boat from its mooring and watched in sorrow as it drifted down the river and out of

                           sight.

NARRATOR 1:  But the boat did not drift to the sea.

NARRATOR 2:  It came to shore by the mandarin’s palace.

NARRATOR 3:  And so it was that the mandarin found it at sunrise as he strolled along the bank.

MANDARIN:  What have we here?

NARRATOR 1:  The mandarin reached in to pick up the crystal. He turned it over in his hand, examining and admiring it.

MANDARIN:  What a splendid gift the river has brought!

NARRATOR 2:  A few days later, when no one had claimed it, the mandarin sent it to a turner to be made into a teacup.

NARRATOR 3:  He brought the cup one evening to Mi Nuong’s room.

MANDARIN:  (to MI NUONG, handing it to her) A gift for my lovely daughter.

MI NUONG:  Oh, Father, it’s beautiful! I can hardly wait to drink from it!

NARRATOR 1:  When the mandarin left, she told her maid,

MI NUONG:  It’s late, so you can go to bed. But first make me some tea, so I can drink from my cup.

NARRATOR 2:  The maid finished her task and went off. Mi Nuong poured the tea, blew out the candles on the table, and carried the cup to her window seat.

NARRATOR 3:  A full moon shone into the room, and looking out, she watched the moonlight play upon the river. The scent

                           of blossoms drifted from the garden.

NARRATOR 1:  Mi Nuong lifted the cup to her lips.

NARRATOR 2:  But just as she was about to drink . . .

MI NUONG:  (in surprise and fear, staring into cup) Oh!

NARRATOR 3:  She quickly set the cup down on the bench.

NARRATOR 1:  On the surface of the tea was the face of Truong Chi, gazing at her with eyes filled with love.

NARRATOR 2:  And now his sweet song filled the room, familiar but a little changed.

TRUONG CHI:  (singing)

                              Mi Nuong is like a blossom in the breeze.

                              Mi Nuong is like a moonbeam on the waves.

NARRATOR 3:  And Mi Nuong remembered those eyes she had seen so briefly through the open door, and she remembered

                           her laugh.

MI NUONG:  What have I done? I was so cruel! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know. . . . I’m sorry. So very, very sorry!

NARRATOR 1:  Her eyes filled with tears. A single tear dropped into the cup.

NARRATOR 2:  It was enough. The crystal melted away, releasing the spirit of Truong Chi.

NARRATOR 3:  Then Mi Nuong heard the song one last time, floating off over the river.

TRUONG CHI:  (singing in the distance)

                              Mi Nuong is like a blossom in the breeze.

                              Mi Nuong is like a moonbeam on the waves.

MI NUONG:  (softly) Good-bye. . . . Good-bye.

* * *

NARRATOR 1:  It was not many months more when Mi Nuong was given in marriage to the son of a great mandarin.

NARRATOR 2:  He was young and handsome, and she felt that her dreams had come true.

NARRATOR 3:  Yet now, as she gazed on a different garden and a different view of the river, she often still heard the song of the fisherman echo softly in her heart.

Oli Impan by Alberto S. Florentino

     After the liberation of Manila, hundreds of indigent families settled in the squalid, cramped space of the bombed ruins of an old government building of Juan Luna. For more than a decade these “squatters” tenaciously refused to move out in spite of court rulings. The “casbah”, as the compound was popularly known, became a breeding place for vice and corruption. The city government was able to evict the “squatters” only on December 20, 1958 – five days before Christmas.

(On the middle of the stage, extending from side to side, is a stone wall one and a half feet high. At left may be seen a portion of a tall edifice. At right, is a portion of the “casbah”. Beyond the stone wall, an estero (unseen) – and the sky. A five-year-old girl sits on the stone wall, her thin legs dangling in the air. Offstage there is a continuous commotion of evacuation. A woman’s voice rises above the commotion as she reprimands a child for getting in her way. A six-year-old boy appears on stage walking backwards – away from his mother, nagging offstage. The mother quiets down. The boy turns around and plays with his toy: an empty milk can pulled along the ground with a piece of string.)

Girl: Is there a fire?

Boy: (Stops playing and faces her) Huh?

Girl: I said, is there a fire?

Boy: There is no fire. (Continues to play)

Girl: (Looks toward the street. After a pause.) I think there is no fire.

Boy: (Stops playing_ I told you there’s none.

Girl: There is.

Boy: How do you know? Do you see any smoke? Do you hear any fireman? (resumes his play. Runs around imitating a fire engine) EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I like it when there is a big fire!

Girl: (Worried) If there is no fire, why are they putting these things out? (pints to a pile of household belongings nearby)

Boy: Because we are being thrown out.

Girl: Who told you?

Boy: My mother.

Girl: Who is throwing us out?

Boy: (Sits on the other end of the stone wall) The government.

Girl: What is a government?

Boy: I don’t know.

Girl: You didn’t ask your mother?

Boy: I forgot to ask her.

Girl: Why should the government throw us out?

Boy: (Points to the compound) Because it owns this.

Girl: (Enraged) But this is ours!

Boy: No, it is not ours.

Girl: (Insistent) It is ours! It is!

Boy: It is not!

Girl: (A tiny scream) It is! It is!

Boy: (Loud) How do you know it is ours?

Girl: We’ve always been here, haven’t we?

Boy: Yes, but that doesn’t mean it is ours.

Girl: (After a pause) If they throw us out, we’ll have nowhere to go. How about you? You have any place to go?

Boy: None. But we will have one. (Proudly) My mother has a job.

Girl: She has?

Boy: Yes!

Girl: What does she do?

Boy: She reads hands.

Girl: She reads – hands? (Looking at her hands) Why does she read hands?

Boy: So she can tell what will happen tomorrow.

Girl: She can do that? By reading hands?

Boy: Yes, She can!

Girl: (Showing him her hands) Can she read my hands? I want to know where we will stay tomorrow.

Boy: She can’t read your hands.

Girl: (Looks at them) Why not?

Boy: They are too small… and dirty.

Girl: (She quickly withdraws them and quietly wipes them on her dress)

Boy: Besides… she reads only men’s hands.

Girl: Only men’s hands? Why?

Boy: Because they are big.. and easy to read.

Girl: How does she read hands? Like she reads the comics?

Boy: I don’t know.

Girl: You don’t know? Don’t you watch her?

Boy: My mother won’t let me. She makes me go out and play. And she closes the door.

Girl: She closes the door! How can she read in the dark?

Boy: I don’t know. (Proudly) But she can!

Girl: Don’t you ever peep?

Boy: No, I don’t.

Girl: Why not?

Boy: She’ll beat me up.

(Commotion offstage.)

Girl: What’s that? What’s happening there?

Boy: (Tries to see) I don’t know. I can’t see. (Pulls her) Come out, let’s take a look!

Girl: (Resisting) I can’t.

Boy: Why not?

Girl: My father told me to stay here. He said not to go anywhere.

Boy: (Turning) Then I will go and take a look.

Girl: (Frightened) No, don’t. Stay here. Don’t leave me.

Boy: Why?

Girl: I’m afraid.

Boy: Afraid of what?

Girl: I don’t know.

Boy: But how can we find out what’s happening?

Girl: Let’s not find out anymore.

Boy: (Restless) But I want to see. (Scampers up the stone wall) I can see from here!

Girl: What do you see?

Boy: (Incredulous) They are destroying our homes. (Sound of wrecking crew at work)

Girl: (frightened) Who are destroying them?

Boy: The men with hammers!

Girl: Nobody is stopping them?

Boy: Nobody.

Girl: But why? Are there no policemen?

Boy: There are. There are many policemen.

Girl: What are they doing? What are the policemen doing?

Boy: Nothing.

Girl: Nothing? They are not stopping the men?

Boy: No.

Girl: Why not?

Boy: I don’t know.

(Commotion. Shouts. Curses)

Girl: (Alarmed) What’s happening now?

Boy: (excited throughout) A man is trying to stop the men with hammers! Now the policemen are trying to stop him. They’re running after him. But the man fights like a mad dog! (A man shouts, cursing)

Girl: (Suddenly, with terror in her voice). That’s my father! (In her fright she covers her eyes with hands)

Boy: Your father?

Girl: Yes, he’s my father! What are they doing to him? Are they hurting him?

Boy: No, they are only trying to catch him… Now they’ve caught him! They are tying his hands!

Girl: What will they do to him?

Boy: I don’t know. Now they are putting him in a car. A police car.

Girl: (Whimpers) Father… Father…

Boy: They are taking him away! (A car with siren drivers away)

Girl: (Screams) FATHER! FATHER!

Boy: He can’t hear you now.

Girl: (Starts to cry)

Boy: (Walks to and sits beside her) Why are you crying? Don’t cry please…

Girl: They are going to hurt my father, aren’t they?

Boy: No, they won’t hurt him.

Girl: (Removes her hands from her eyes) How do you know?

Boy: I just know it. (Suddenly) Come, let’s sing a song.

Girl: I don’t know how to sing.

Boy: I’ teach you.

Girl: How?

Boy: I’ll sing… and you listen. (She nods and wipes her eyes dry)

Boy: (Sings) Saylenay…

Olinay…

Oliskam…

Olisbray…

Ranyonberginmaderenchayle…

Oli impansotenderenmayle…

Slipinebenlipis…

Slipinebenlipis…

Girl: (Smiling) That’s a pretty song. Who taught you that song?

Boy: (Proudly) My mother!

Girl: What does it mean? I can’t understand it.

Boy: It’s about God.

Girl: What’s a “God”?

Boy: I don’t know. I haven’t asked my mother. But she told me God was born in a stable.

Girl: What’s a stable?

Boy: A place for horses.

Girl: (Incredulous) He was born there? In a place for horses? Why?

Boy: My mother said he had nowhere to stay.

Girl: Was he poor?

Boy: I don’t know.

Girl: (Suddenly) I like the song. Will you sing it again?

Boy: No, let’s sing it together.

Girl: I told you, I don’t know how.

Boy: I’ll teach you. I’ll sing it a little… and you sing after me. (She smiles and nods)

Boy: (Sings) Saylenay…

Girl: Saylenay…

Boy: Olinay…

Girl: Olinay…

Boy: Oliskam…

Girl: Oliskam…

Boy: Olisbray…

Girl: Olisbray…

Boy: Ranyonberginmaderenchayle…

Girl: Ranyon…(She giggles) I can’t say that!

Boy: Let’s skip it. (Sings) Oli impan… n, skip that, too. (Sings)

Slipinebenlipis…

Girl: Slipinebenlipis…

Boy: Slipinebenlipis…

Girl: Slipinebenlipis…