Poetry of Nurel Javissyarqi

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Translated by Agus B. Harianto


Fine thread of visible lassoes her looking
climbed the height of wave don’t know where to
season destination of young estimation be with you.

The fingers reach into the cloud,
the rain showers dreams almost lost.

Rearrange the step out to explore the secret,
would appear if aim to the end of time.

Shawl you fly was a real of its color
won’t faded even flitted embroidery
I paid attention to the fragrant of blossoming existence.

Carries your thrown as high as your levee,
occasionally shake smacker of the drizzle of sacred.

The cloud fringing the origin of wind charmed you,
the light scattered out as the singing of my hair.

To Suryanto Sastroatmodjo

Breaths of wave
carves coral rock,
thunderous of foam witnesses the sun.

As far as the waves to the shore,
fell onto the ankle of the hermit.

Wing stretching in space
the blink of stars swept by drizzle.

The heart of waves pumps the clouds,
enfolded by bright nights.

The voices from the sea, perturbs
long sleep of the salt grains.

Campfire entertaining as much as the rush of charcoal
visited the boundary of hinterland (the depth).

Hunted for the parade of dawn,
clicking sound for longing of arch of the beach.

As far as dancing in the heart of the ocean,
rumble of meditation echoes in the sky.

For Alexander Pushkin

Bemoaned the escarpment of fate
his heart hugged grove.

He brought the curse of the Prophets
poignant life
embedded forever.

When the wind in his fingers,
crawled the tricky of time.

Body hidden by the night,
flapped by the wing of ocean.

For Wislawa Szymborska

What doubts have you buried?
Until the world amazed
to your occult smiles.

I know you as far as twilight
but the wrinkles on the face
unseemly disappointed.

What sunglasses with
you saw the sky

So many years
I reflecting your doubts
what I got is always illusion.

Oh, where can we meet?
In what country can we meet?
Is it in Poland?

Would you describe your doubts to me,
so I could swallow it
fully indeed.

And how much deeper,
should I dig the cemetery of time?

Give your speech Szymborska
in my dreams.

To Jawaharlal Nehru

He is faithful to care the age independently
stringing up color of the light of contemplation.

As odor as the time embraced by the sun
beyond conversation of history.

Letter read out from the jail,
the times was beating fully spirit.

The wind spelled the hair of consciousness
that long to mobilize the dreams.

He is picker of longing rhythm to the homeland
rushing for dancing on the altar of conscience.

Found the bloom of country
on a brow line of pure souls.

On dust of holy book of firmament
which always opens the door of the world.

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