In every gentle "Po" and soft "Opo,"
Lies a culture taught by hearts that know.
Not just words—but echoes of respect,
A heritage we vow to keep and protect.
We bow and whisper, "Mano po," with care,
A touch that speaks of love beyond compare.
This quiet act, both tender and profound,
Keeps family roots strong and tightly bound.
We joke about Filipino Time, it's true,
But grace and patience shape the things we do.
Though minutes stretch, our welcome has no end,
A home awaits in every loyal friend.
A Balikbayan Box, so full, so wide,
Carries hugs from oceans deep and wide.
In every soap, in snacks, in clothes that gleam,
Is sacrifice wrapped in an unseen dream.
Hospitality—our soul's bright flame,
Where every guest is family, just the same.
We share our food, our stories, and our plight,
And turn a stranger's sorrow into light.
With hands we eat, no silverware in sight,
Eating with hands feels raw, yet just so right.
Banana leaves, rice piled, and meats so warm—
It's how we bond, beyond the feast's charm.
We laugh and sigh and say, "Sana all," with cheer,
A hopeful cry, both humorous and sincere.
It speaks of dreams we hold inside our chest,
Of lives we wish, of love, of doing our best.
So let us speak in tongues that grew from flame,
For Wikang Filipino is more than a name.
It is the mirror where our hearts reside,
A nation's soul that time can never hide.