Translated by Agus B. Harianto
[THE WINE OF THE PROPHET]
To Ibn Rushd (Averroes)
A glass of wine from pitcher’s pouring of past centuries
stored in your residence.
I was visiting, you allowed me to drink it
I gulped it in silence of the long
tinkling coursed through the throat.
My soul freshened with clear view not vague,
seethed into the stomach of longing.
My scope asked: what you performed?
He said: it’s the juice of the hands of orphans,
he gave it to me when wandered, dropping by here.
My chest suddenly shaken increased pulsation,
before kept asking, you vanished from my front.
For Iman Budhi Santosa
The march of my jealousy to you
the cloud curved on the purple sky.
Wailing to hoard the story of past,
in the country that last night crushed by hurly-burly.
Tree branches were burnt
licked by the lightning stroke.
Dropped a kiss of death to rock
missed shadow and conquered the revenge.
It said that the breaker of destiny would come
as a hammer hit fiber of the time.
On the forehead of fog’s wrinkles of mountain
as far as the heart crashed by froth of beach.
Symbolized in the deed of interpretation
entering the dance of soul aims to go home.
It has the lunge power of possibilities,
more horrified than a bunch of treason.
[DEDICATION BALLAD ]
To Rabindranath Tagore
I paid to the ballad of your dedication
its rhythm hypnotized the age.
The birds you gave liberty
to have nest on the top of towering bamboo.
Rustle of the night lures lovers
as a pulse of glory’s air of lap.
You have thousand stupa of the temple of lively life,
hills and also the foot of story stream.
The children disengaged the hug of shawl
the mother watches at the curve of gust.
Bamboo cutter cleared up ankles,
he put candlelight on the basin.
Bamboo’s tubing showered by longing of lighting,
stared by the full moon of village.
The kids sang some songs,
the eternity of night to the bedside.
[BRUSH OF FEATHER HORSE]
To Jean Paul Sartre
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.
[GUEST OF SILENCE]
To Marguerite Yourcenar
At front door written a sentence:
“Come in and unchain the name of the idol,
going out with a light. ”
At the door has a sign
that follows to fail along with the voice.
Billowing of smoke doubtful
expectations never come true
but the breath has to end someday.
Heavy rains whites the sky
floating cleaves the blue
perched on the gray afternoon.
Emptiness of body fall
the cold of word met satisfaction by
the height of silent wind.
Drained dance of pen into the abyss of
drizzle falls of steep hills.
Explore the season of time’s hand
take your destiny to love the eternity.
The ramble souls redeemed by the cloud
interpreted the gray heartbeat,
stored in tubes of plan.
A hanging flower of house’s terrace
its stems coursed through the prominent personality.