PUstaka puJAngga

Translated by Agus B. Harianto

[BEACH’S CONVERSATIONS]

Wrinkles of forehead aimed to the silent streets
along the river branches,
whispered voices
to rigid and calm ear,
down the valleys of the heart
stepped up the continuously and harmoniously sick.

When tripped over a rock or
broken twigs of past dry season,
willing of purpose went to the ocean
to meet the spring of your fate;
you left the depth
wandering as the eyes of rainbow.

There are voices of calling
echoes but ignored
though breaks the silence
befell to grain of sand;
the frozen of heart in the air
blended with the stars.

The night made the soul-body be at once
some of the world said,
slammed into the closed niche
silent and drowning;
golden carriage drawn by typhoon
toward the countries of mysteriousness.

Disengaging repetitive burden of the self
surrounded the height,
the cloud slept in drunkenness
it swayed the tenderness,
a sash as a rope of memories
it caressed the testimony,
a reaching of wave
washed the face of waiting.

[A SHADOW’S FACE OF PAINTINGS]

Butterflies went to the top of blue
when the midnight comes
fireflies flickering,
if they tired to fly
the wing of light goes out.

Eye of colonizer flicked and staring each other
fruit hanging on the side of the road
climbed up the air to offer the memories,
lying down to make daydream of the clouds chasing each other
fold pine shoots as cold as the hill.

Rows of crane pressed sadness left by the season
the calling fog asked to climb down the green valley of springs
jingle jumped on stones to flow through fields,
possessed the strength of soul of reef unchained and stroke by the wave
the flowers drifted and sailed and crashed onto the beach.

Evaporated sweat roasted the shoulder,
chosen voice soared into the sky
followed by swirling winds to the mountain of storms
entrust the mist of virginity onto the tops.

The night weather flattered thin skin to be shivering,
the spirit of fire conversation in the depth of dark repeated
beside the smile gathered rope of doubt.

Buried the bosom of moon
the stars beat so hard
brush of horse’s feather lost
as a face of shadow in the painting.

[UNKNOWN POET]

As far as desolate plains
wind rustling as the path of empty days.

On the hunt of tears drop,
dusty body been the cleft fate.

Shadow of spirit increasing to the frozen
after heavy drizzling petrified.

The soul trapped into the everlasting fight
to fragrant incense smoke of the words.

The eyes of death darted. Achieved
dropping leaves on the foot of hill.

Thrashing steel cemetery
tore the grief of history.

Papers were noiseless
gray rainy night.

Bruised face got beat by the time
as smooth as the marrow of doubt.

[BREATH OF LOVE]

Unto you my breaths gathered
the thunderous of waves rolled up your veins.

The rumble torn by the heart of jealousy
probed in recesses of the secret
walking on the path of promise to create longing.

As much as the everlasting singing of wanderer’s legs
greeted thorns of wild-wilder cactus
; gravel rock of the west blocked the recollecting memory.

As far as the wind blossomed flower sincerely
climbing up the day of earnestness of the stones
carried onto the aisle of the fog.

Are there any of your doubts collected?
Hurry, the beach is calling you.

Yearning of envious is pounding
stepping up the level of gray clouds.

Rained the down town of your island
understood daydream of the whole time;
the sun sprinkles the light of feeling.

Oh dear, kiss my soul at the other side
guided me through the path of gathering the blessing.

As the warm water of limestone
wetted your hair hanging loosely.

In the endless nights
upon a bit of the weary of your fingers;
there are struggling of paper, your black ink.

[LONG BREATH OF WANDERER]

When thousands dews created the morning
I was picking the words without pattern.

As clear as the heart scatters the sentences
scent and lived my breath-your breath
in the long story of the world of wandering.

Read the book of tears to the estuary
invited to the end places of the last resting.

Your oceans similar my sky turns blue
and seagulls are joking
passed the clouds are the boundary of memories.

As the water of purity tinkling forever
recited the spell on teak’s leaves
stroke by the night wind of the hermit.

Are there anything coming to you
with a handful of light?

Only sick with a fever approaching to the death
I tried again to write poems
then disappeared with the dancing of the eyes of pen.

Flapped the time to walk along the bosom
had sweat draping the heart of wind
gathered stems and spread leaves.

In the every breath hugs the groan
climbing your hair hanging loosely.

When the dusk stabbed the evening
as the growth plant in the greatest jungle
as the black of ink sings the words.

[AT THE END OF SEPARATION]

The clouds in crowded covering your shadow
be willing to sneak and steal through the window
: the rain flows boisterous current of the river of soul.

Passed the old fatigue to grind the time
as soft as the smell of coffee in isolated room
dwelled by the night uncovering the lonely of mysterious leaf.

At noon burnt by the sky of embers of the hills
rock of fire allied to storms rolled by the wind
at the height of soul climbed up the bosom of light.

Staring at twilight on the end of harbor
trees danced the wind to wait for the evening,
return back behind to the moon waited by the longing.

Oh pieces of time as the expectation to step
clinking rotated the eye of pen,
to the cliffs of the firmament of disappointment.

Filed under: Poetry, PUstaka puJAngga