Congested in a big box,
Different colors and hues.
They say, a personal pick,
Not random and not tricked.
People think it’s that one thing,
But there’s more in what they see.
The pressure and expectations,
The disappointments and frustrations.
So the marbles were grouped,
According to which they prefer.
Two goes by five, one goes by six,
The others are small but they are fixed.
A common denominator, the groups have,
Not the wit nor the skills,
But the heart to surpass all,
The outer chaos and their inner brawl.
There are days they meet, the different groups,
And outside the box, they play.
Opening up and sharing,
There were laughters and story-telling.
More moments passed,
And the marbles‘ shades faded.
The variety of colors toned into one,
Hues and colors blended into one.
Then some time, nearing Christmas,
They were gathered in the grass.
A news broke then tears were brimming,
Some were quiet, some were sobbing.
They have with them the stars,
On that fateful night.
Audible were the sighs of exasperation,
Brokeness and exhaustion.
The marbles of one color cried,
Not wanting anyone to go.
Their lamenting voices sang,
As their pierced hearts pang.
Poem by Aislyn Mienne Alegre (III-I BEE)