February
“Pass by, pass by,” someone says politely
to Time. But the cold
brings it to a halt, the city
shuts its doors.
Buildings still try to
declare their names
to the dark. But form Street 108 onwards
there is no more conversation
The moon ia as pale as margarine and
soundless.
The sky does not melt.
Traffic signs and lights
form
a hieroglyphic line,
and on Kilometer 6
there shines a final ray of light,
probably tossed
to the middle of strait:
a glow as slow as
a dancer mimicking a swan.
“Pas by, pass by,” someone says again
to Time.
But the ocean sucks it up and
minutes turn blue.
So rests eternity,
briefly, while the city
tunes in form a distance,
to the End’s footsteps,
like the horn of hunters….
2004
Translator: Laskmi Pamuntjak
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Taken from Selected Poems, Puisi Pilihan: Revised and Expanded [Kata Kita: 2004], p. 210-212.