These zinc walls, those very weary corrodes spreading in each tip of its peeking holes, the torn cheap-glued posters. The thinnest walls separating minds from impressions, cutting anxiety and curiosity from a tiny time-out. Bedlams no one could complain, a claustrophobic citadel.
'Stop and smell life', the trees cry. Clouds racing into nothingness. Rain pours blessings and we build hideouts against it. Compound shelters blocked the keen horizon lines. Nights made as dissolving as the sun. Why are people running?
These zinc walls, eyes can't see through anyhow.
May 29, 2011
May 25, 2011
Ini akar anda.
Mungkin bahkan sudah anda kunyah jauh sebelum daulat anda untuk menghancurkan; kunyah, kunyah tanpa pernah menjadi manis. Kunyah tanpa anda harus tangisi gagal dan sukses tuainya. Ini akar anda yang kemudian anda selimuti beton dan kawat baja. Peluh wanita di setapak licin sana sudah kian uzur, peluh warisan ibu ayahnya yang belum kering. Terik berubah muram dan angin menjadi halilintar dan hijau menguning. Bajak telah beranjak mahal dan gabah kian murah, dan anda masih mengunyah. Tidak apa, kami menunggu. Jelas tidak sebanding dengan citra anda menyoal perihal kerja: kami menunggu. Ini akar kami.
Setinggi apa lempeng seng dan semen anda, toh kami selalu panen.
May 22, 2011
May 14, 2011
parkiran
Dan jika saya membuka buat kamu dan anda, tolong pelintirkan jarumnya di rambut saya. Tapi, tidak. Bukannya kamu benci kain lurus yang tidak banyak tertawa, dan anda mual melihat kutu ketiak mereka yang berkeringat?
May 5, 2011
May 4, 2011
Remember that Mediterranean beaches? The green sands of salty seaweeds- that humble and warm nakedness in people. Kids embrace all longing for hundred years of stories.
And all the nearly unending paved roads of names. Those kind bearded men of harmonicas and accordions. The endless beer toast. Streets may cold in time, but everyone's strong enough to wait.
Oh, that small brick church of lanterns.
You remember those murmuring French cafés. People learned themselves joy in books and silent observations.
I barely know anything about the gypsies.
And all the nearly unending paved roads of names. Those kind bearded men of harmonicas and accordions. The endless beer toast. Streets may cold in time, but everyone's strong enough to wait.
Oh, that small brick church of lanterns.
You remember those murmuring French cafés. People learned themselves joy in books and silent observations.
I barely know anything about the gypsies.
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