PUstaka puJAngga

Written by Nurel Javissyarqi
Translated by Agus B. Harianto

(I) Thousand of haunting pull my hair,
together with the sun passes over the seventh days of earth,
twelve full moon, drizzle and hot day stings.
Which night, watches the forever stars,
on the savannah of coarse grasses, when the mist spread out the doubt;
the air begins to be breathed by thinking, mysterious doubt are swallowed.

(II) The necklace surrounds the neck of angel,
doesn’t wider than the back of knife; be forged by the light of moon,
be glistening to strike the soul of accounting. The blood is poured out
as fresh as the stomach of virgin girl, which is drew by own sword.

(III) To your Faust, I learn the seven secret of nature,
all spirits hypnotize me, grants to the city’s line of silent;
we teach the fast wind blowing of releasing.

(IV) Because the cold of light precipitates,
the skin nearest with the fire, as the bridge for the power;
crash over as how the war on the altar of inner heart does.

(V) This is the children of spiders eat their mother; the human,
are deceived to eat the happiness, similar like the thousand charming doors.

(VI) On the black and mossy stone, the conversation is silent and empty;
the humid assaults onto the bosom of fighting, the leafs are shaking.
The dew of topaz are fell off by rolling, on the hand incarnates become diamond.

(VII) Together with the real dawn, the abstract dawn is swallowed,
to the bushes of the cave’s inside, the relief is read, the testimony is poured out.

(VIII) The snow melts at river bars,
copulates the light to incarnate become the glass;
there is the stains of diamond at the old tree,
which pleasure to plunge the human being.
Trough the red light, its ray is steady to be doubt,
swing to the heart as how the apples are sliced do.

(IX) The yelling of children on the hunt farm,
the mother’s crying on the country of oppression;
the mysterious fire creates the shadow at mid night,
they are sick to watch the mysterious. And the heart is trembled,
the lava breaks the bone to rib the flesh and pull out the fiber,
be peeled off the soft skin after been burnt.

(X) Full chance to finish the work,
be burdened with ill of passion to be free billow;
the cold sweat is coming out heavily after the jacket of thick overcast
to close the body of sky; the fever has the symptom to be everlasting.

(XI) At the limit of it doesn’t, the soul of life is hanging around,
stepping down the stair of nervous, flying upward like steam of tombstone;
the eternality is carved, before the dusts burry the periods.

(XII) The blood circulates to whole life, the passion of holy fire
flexing the weather of humid; trouble noisy of the soul
pounds on the doors, then the gate of nature is read.

(XIII) At the point of ravine’s border of the certainty,
the crows are perching on the stalks;
when the flower are blossoming to hug the mountain side,
the reciting of worshiping tembang is passing over the valley of cluster rice field.

(XIV) The monument of glass is planted on town square at mid town,
they are sprucing up to the mirror to see their own faces. And,
the bats are flying at the fontanel of old post office,
while the little birds are shivered,
to infiltrate the line, running helter and shelter out of the arena.

July 5, 2000, Yogyakara.

http://www.sastra-indonesia.com/2008/11/buat-jwv-goethe-i/

Filed under: Ballads of Too Early Destiny, PUstaka puJAngga