I love cogon grasses.

Cogonal fields bring me to trance when rose gardens bore me to death. Roses are dull and they smell the same that not even their colors can unfetter them from the pathetic truth of being nothing but boring.

Cogons, on the other hand, are shy and mysterious. They grow silently and they die silently but never unnoticed. A cogon-adoring too, the wind weeps for the death of cogons, its tears showering on the departed soil, breaking its sudden infertility.

Only then that the emancipation of the fresh cogons happen. And a new love affair happens again.

The wind makes love to the cogon as if there is no tomorrow. The wind usually slaps the cogons softly, teasing them until their stiff bodies bend gracefully, as if in sweet surrender.

Whether the arching of their bodies means reaching an orgasm is something that the wind and cogons can only tell and understand.

But not at all times is the wind soft in caressing these grasses. Sometimes, the wind is harsh. Sometimes it hits the cogons strongly that it breaks the bones of the poor grasses, leaving them listless on the ground.

Then, lifeless.

And the wind and I will await for the new breed to spring again. And until then the chanting of the requiem stops.