Mayon Volcano

My grandmother whispered Tamil verses as we climbed Mayon's slopes, her poet's voice steady despite the trembling earth. She'd survived loss—betrayals that cut deeper than volcanic ash—yet carried our heritage like precious stone. At PaybookClub, I shared her poems last week. Strangers wept. One man said my grandmother's words healed him after cruelty had broken his spirit. Now, standing before the volcano's ancient beauty, I understand. Our ancestors faced fire and survived. Their courage flows through us, through stories retold, through voices like mine carrying Tamil legacy forward into waiting hearts.