: Rambu, Bali-Lombok-Alor
of the pictures you sent, an old woman
handed me a basketful of her offerings
for the gods who dwell the shrines.
“Thank you, but I am not another new god planted
by the commercials.” I could see her eyes learned
my face. She gaped, disbelieving words from my soul.
“An outcast I am.” I let her read my nakedness,
touch the scars that screamed stories in a language
she recognized. She listened to the splashing sound
of waves in my youth, to the voyages in my past.
Then she saw a burning plain, my childhood playground
was scorched by the fright nobody care.
The old woman rubbed my dried tears with her thumb,
hers had long been gone. Then she left without a word,
the offerings on her head, she continued to look for
the gods who dwell the shrines. I saw her walk
sliced the smoke on the ground, her traces revealed
the bleeding earth of Paradise Island
(Suddenly I heard rustling leaves singing grateful
whispers no more. It just concealed lament: she carried
her offerings for the gods who dwell the shrines,
when the tales, the rivers, the beaches, and even gods
had been sold. She carried her offerings for the god
who already had to pay for their pedestal, and
new gods marched in colorful displays. Nobody cared.)
Metro, 14/06/2010
© Era Fiyantiningrum
Sort of explanation:
Sort of explanation:
Last time I knew Bali was in The International Social Forum, where the delegates stayed in posh hotel charged for some hundreds USD a day: “Another World is Possible” inside the conference rooms, the native Balinese were striving harder outside.
