May 28, 2008

Arif B. Prasetyo (3)


The sun,
A yellow tiger groans
Gripping the flesh of a darkening sky
Over the shock of my memory.
At the corner of the peninsula
I see the skin of the sky is peeling
Scratched by your long-soft nails.
The hours of your trembling stare
Carve the shadow of the evening in my eyes
Dragging the aroma of your dying
Which is exhausted with the coral reef
And the leaves that has grown thick and tough
Draining off the time.
Don’t cry sweetie, please do not rave.
I hate being astonished to see the whiskers of your light
Hanging loosely in the space
Begin to dance in a strutting way
And scatter to all directions
Showering with the sand.
My memory slip.

A mile of the last clouds
Sinks in the dark shoulders of the women
Who has been sleeping by the sea
Those who called my nick-name in wonder
And loved the silent sun of the heart :
The stupid stone, the badly wounded one
That insists on looking at you
While you are dying to get me out
Of the crumpled rainy days
Scratching the skin of the waters
As cold as your touch.


Your body:
The little hills
The old Ketapang tree,
The slippery road which is forked at its end
Licked by the smell of the melancholy.
The ponds of salt water,
The humid steam in the clefts
Of the moldy wood.
The huts are falling apart.
The ivory tongue
of the sun
Slits the curve of the earth
With open eyes
And a naked bravado.
At dusk,
Impressed by the pure masculine wind drawing
The tip of the young-green sugar cane,
The neglectful angel descends
To an area not found in the map.
Without wings,
And chased away,
He picks up the wound of the day. And keeps on stumbling
Over the path of an Adam which is stepped on
As long as the black sand,
Among the red clusters,
Halfway dark,
The giant umbrellas,
The lively banners,
And days passed-by
In gray and haze
And the remnant of the skylight
Which is trembling because of the ghost of the martyrs
Who were killed in a huge hole.
The angel
Poorer than a stoned-to-death man
Look at his dying eyes
Sliced by the wild dogs.
Twenty four jaw-knives bark wildly
Drooling rancid mucus.
It rained more than yesterday’s storm
Spiting the sand-ship as free as can be
To the rainbow with seven colours.
And then through a short cry
Which is thrown to the air
From a hiding
In the battle in the bush of the park
On his forehead I find stars
Running around.
The light takes refuge
To the sky,
The spear of spirits that was released
Its sound is like paddy borer
Reddening the rough barch of the trees.
The aroma of the burnt meat,
The wide ditch open wide
Flooded with fragrance
From the cut meat.
The death is like a candle in the middle of a party
And as if the soft hand of the sky
It was awaken to guide you to the gate:
The explosion
Of the birth,
The meeting of the days and night.
“O my sweet pigeon
If later you decide on your return path
Or a route
Taking you to the morning, don’t hesitate!
Remember the ripples that luminescent
In my last cry,
The retina
Which stay under the light of an harbour,
The little hills, the old ketapang tree,
The curling of the snake’s tongue
Embracing it.......