Island Conversation
| The Lonely Eagle | Photo by Zelfeni Wimra
stems from old penance
the sailors tethered their love to the cliffs
Andalas, the island that looks like a ripped cloth
a stretch of moss green
water gushed out from the eyes of the rice queen
everything's perfect
the forests danced in rows of trees
the sap smells of incense
nectar and honey-loving birds
have for centuries combined their romance here
You can see it with simple eyes
this winding history has also reached the point of injury
the dance of the trees has been tired and stopped
axles and aloes have been replaced by rubber and palm oil
at each end of the dry season, your ripe green eyes will succumb to inflamed peat embers
sparks of fire crashing in sight
cane smoke will inhabit your lungs
and you will see, poets, the most unfortunate destiny of all curses, ending their prayers with dying poetry:
"o, sumatra island, forgive our singing,"
2019
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