inside the box, neatly arranged amongst sealed mugs
of lagoon, sand, and salty wind. I was everything of a journey,
had to depart while my heart still the soil to grow other dreams
of this archipelago, without children clothed poverty or misery
But my palms are no longer the map. Years and tears had mixed
its scratch with scars, "Please help me read the road signs,
before Time comes devaluing price of the broken plans."
But then the night was down and you never came. I saw myself
curled against demons of the open window, too numb to stop
scavengers sneaked in, busied themselves picking anything
scattered on the floor: pile of desolation, stack of vain,
even words leaked from damaged paragraphs, "No, don't take them.
The lines are mine. I search and gather any piece of lost paradise,
I am one of you, vagrants roaming landfill of prophecies"
09-17/06/2010
© Era Fiyantiningrum
© Era Fiyantiningrum
