June 05, 2008

Sitok Srengenge (6)


When the bud of love breaks in the woman's heart
and the voice twists its bonds, becoming words
sliding towards the man,
the lake in her womb
overgrown with silent bamboo
When the words collide with the man's soul's cliff
and the echo thunders like a hurricane,
at that moment the bamboo's been bewitched
and the woman knows a life begins inside her
The woman walks around before sleeping
so dreams will guide her to the road's bend,
where she'll meet a man
and the light radiating from the East
There a mother prepares a place
for the new life beginning in the womb
In the woman's lake containing a rainbow
the man entwines himself
till all dismays perish
billows becoming fog,
his body redeems
becoming mirage
his awareness rising high
becoming the sun,
and the mind which always keeps the woman's face
spreads out becoming a sky of billowing clouds
And the woman walks around,
circling the lake of her own creation
She sees fog, sees the sun,
sees the sky of billowing clouds
She sees the mirage,
sees transience
Desire stands eternally with the man
becoming the rainbow's thickest colour
Through tears the man reaches the woman
and if the fog
wants to tug
the man sneezes
and a typhoon rises from the eyebrows' base
making the sun slip into the lake till it sinks
and his tears wink transforming stars
While taking a cat in her lap
the woman looks upwards into the clear night
and stars fall to the bottom of the silent lake
And the woman daydreams before sleeping
till the dream ends her wandering at the brink of waking,
then she watches the man's sweat dangling from the leaves
in the glare of light radiating from the East



My eyelids are transforming a boat
grounded on your river's frozen surface
a heart etched
and the moon puffing behind an ice berg
together piling up mist
and the night melts
The border wind touches your lips
tulips' petals delay breath in the dust of snow
Three guys, noses pierced with gold rings
approach me asking for marijuana
"Because your hair's long and black and, well, you're brown!"
No. It's the instinct to exploit
a subordinated race
And I remember a waitress at a restaurant
overlooking a park,
where a flock of pigeons
fought over breadcrumbs,
allowing her breasts to spill from her sweater
as if ignoring winter
As she turned her cat eyes to me
half scolding half seducing
"Sorry, you can't smoke kretek in here. But, if you want,
we could do it together in my apartment."
And I drift off in a second floor room
an old red brick building
A wad of a sofa
facing a TV playing soft erotica,
Stella Artois from Belgium,
and a pair of goblets between them
You imagine Rome, I remember Yogya
who knows why
There's also Gauguin's blow
like the wind,
red and mustard-yellow embracing,
dark and reddish purple
Maybe desire trembles because of the mist
and the mountain night
You reveal a cover,
offer a heart beat
My thoughts return to a hungry morning,
the wing of a seagull among drizzles, the lake's edge
Handful of bread,
a nipple of raisins, melted butter
But still I hear, faintly, in the boulevard,
the season blowing and the last twig of linden leaf leaves
at the moment your nerves shake
between jittery movement and stammering voice

Then: silence!
But, there in a park
Venus and pines whisper,
for they're wet
soaked by
January rain



Fingers of a mischievous season
Grab a small girl's hip,
Trembling butterfly waiting for the wind to pass
towards Buchenwald
I hold back a whistling heart,
behind the back of an beheaded statue,
before a government building's ruin
assaulted by the anger of the unemployed
Suddenly the city becomes a musty man
with whiskers and a beard thick as bushes,
tousled tangled
and his sight as blurred as the dusk's sun
The wind comes rustling
tousling his hair which full of grit
repressing memory of vociferous drizzle
dripping down far in the Simbirsk morning,
sprouting a clump of black grass
spreading wide as night
Then he hears a melancholy clap from the east, swallows
leaving behind a broken colour of twilight, a Soviet
"Fate is not as slippery as woven linen, Mr Lenin," the horizon’s only empty
there's no sunrays, when he muttered the soliloquy
" Do understand, if there's no mausoleum for Mussolini,
after an ideology which took sides for common people
hardens to become cruel as an axe,
beheading the shoots of reason and instinct."
"And the workers, the workers, keep being hunted and killed
by the growing capital."
Half ripe words without echo without magnet,
but the sky screams its voice, creaks its beating
The man's body disappears with the twilight
falling apart as blurred as a fatamorgana,
his head sprawled among scattered rocks
and splinters of a pair of butterfly wings
Between the beheaded statue, a stonehead,
a corpse of butterfly, I'm dazed
watching hope's trot like a last train
to a concentration camp