PUstaka puJAngga

Translated by Agus B. Harianto

[SINGING OF WANDERER]

When the dew sang the song of morning
the heavy river stream meandering the everlasting poem
toward the slopes of your soul to uncover the dawn.

If the sky’s witness of the clouds of night postponed,
the fog thickened to cover the cities.

He is hilly children taking the lessons,
up to now sharing a sense of memories.

Harassed the splashing water and the slowly wind,
songs of foam on beaches reach
leaves of the heart to pay miscarriage.

Drowsiness whispering, feet of shadows
wings of butterflies scattered,
spread the doubt along the road.

Onto slopes of the night of stillness
he sings of the soul be loyal to the roses.

Thorn of words spoke of the wanderer,
wing of hawk mingled with the air.

Claws submission above the head,
the sky has no distance as the wet hair.

Too bad, no kissing of love and affection.

[TWILIGHT STATION]

Waiting for the time anxiously staring at
vibration milling around waited for the lover,
while calculating the color of arrival.

Hearing the heartbeat reviewed the train,
to the limit of view at the twilight station
hoping for keeping promise with a wounded heart.

Orange violet of smile spread the flower,
on the fields of hunting allured white dove
into the black cage of soul to see the lover.

[PERENNIAL FLOWER]

In the cemetery’s sky, sound of wood sandals stepped up the cloud
around the bridge sucked the heartbeat haunts,
swept the benighted of love of the beach, the promise melted in the arms.

Culminating waves swelled breaths of the stars,
when the moon came to kiss you, oh flower of immortality. Reading wound
came over before fly to make sweat blood of struggling.

The feet of your power as honey and milk flowing lips of the brave,
a flapping of most concentrated wings, in the quiet cave of the softness of sea.

Be dressed in the eternity, at the end of death facing the rise of the age;
children playing on the edge of strangeness, there is no dream guider
became blind to see, when inability kept surviving.

[INTERPRET THE STEP]

I had fasting for you
as thirsty as throat creates the longing,
but yet I knew as close as to the neck like I was.

Boarded your boat riding down the time,
the beach searches cloud-legged of your smile,
the sky comforted sleepiness in the waiting room.

Told the story about sand grains of the voyage of weary eyes,
heap of memories on the daily fire melted.

Lost after ambushed by the fog,
then frozen desire found the purpose of understanding.

[MELODY OF THE OCEAN]

Rolling waves chasing and crashing each other,
smashed and saved by the cloud swallowed by the ocean currents.

Meet the lover at palace of the ocean of flickering stars,
splashing water lighted off the song and increased the groove of night.

As the body danced by the calling of shawl for paying to the dance of time,
lively as singing of praise song blaring into the soul.

Exploring the love story in space of the melody of meeting,
begun at the decrease of secret passion, rising and drowned the reason.

Limits of dream transformed silent consciousness of the longing heard,
music pounded amongst of the rain throwing the distance.

Wanderer found the death not in vain to the end of love searching,
hit by the waves of soul, splitting the smile of sky and its breathing was mystery.

Entering ear of consideration the quiet tone be delirious to confuse the fate
;loneliness filled through whispering the spelling of the spirit of universe.

[WAVE’S LONGING]

The space of night created wings on straits of yearning
and the back of meetings of clouds forged by full moon.

When the limit of bosom of waves rolled and flung
a bunch of bat crossed the stage of stars.

Visited the kids missing the painting of the toughness
:
reef of silent hermit of the wind of past thousands years came down
presented the fog of feeling waiting to beaten by anxious.

The east shawl opened by caressing of sea’s hand of the boy
by doing all the fish in the vast expanse of the dawn of prejudices.

A bird flew at blob screen of the cloud,
greeted the morning opening the skin of afternoon.

Replaced by the blue pressed flapping of captivating resentment,
the hot of light allied with thousands miles of the wind on the beach.

Crying splashed waves on the field swept by blazing hot,
the song of passion lost by the question never answered.

Waiting on the right time with so much grain salt of the spirit
:
days went in dumb as season of your rusty on the odyssey of wind
to the hills and valleys, the salt furious and tamarind fell over.

Filed under: Poetry, PUstaka puJAngga