[BRUSH OF FEATHER HORSE]

To Jean Paul Sartre

Written by Nurel Javissyarqi
Translated by Agus B. Harianto

Before the sun was opened by result of dreams
combed hair and sprinkled the age of months
as much as a scratching of the death consider the reason.

Soft wing of passion entered the painting,
stallion feathers out of control,
dry of touch slapped by the brush of revolution.

On stage, the vertical line looks wistful
swept eyebrows of your night to the end of cloud,
the journey of bride in war season.

Gently slept by the power of contemplation,
floating shocked by the twilight of conversation
: the free souls fight of suspicion.

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