The kite flies alone
His shadow crosses the dry paddy field
The only answer to his cry is silence
And the rustle of the wind in the leaves
'As the round goes, last glimpse from the top of the town
Shacks made of earth and bamboo
Goodbye, goodbye the song of the langay-langayan
But no one witnessed his distant float
Because there is no one in Sta. Filomena
There is no harvest from the offering of the earth
The rice is bowed down, as if depressed
It seems as if it is waiting for the sickle and the hand
The mango and guava fruits are ripening
Picked by the wind and beaten to the ground
The sun absorbs the sweetness and juice
Leaves the seed dependent
And when the rainy season comes to the sown
To draw life from death
The blood will flow again in the veins of the field
But all this will be wasted
Since there is no one in Sta. Filomena
There is no harvest in the offering of the earth
The rice is bowed down, as if giving up
Offering life to sickle and fist
Flying, screaming the dragonfly
Where you and why are you hiding people
It's time, it's time to return to what was left behind
Let's hear the cry of the poor langay-langayan
Let's hear the cry of the poor langay-langayan

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