Dia Ketiga Kali

Dia kepada siapa ku persembahkan
Darah pertama, manis, asam dan hitam
Pada lesung pipi tertaut cinta cinta
Guratan biru kulitnya mencari
Panas dan gairah diujung hari

Dia kepada siapa ku kuak
Jati diri, giung dan tengik
Setan terlepas dari jeruji
Menampar, meludah, meronta
Membusuk semakin lama
Membuat gila kau, aku, kita

Dia yang tergenggam erat hingga terserpih
Kepada dia selamanya terpatri
Ikrar terikat darah
Aku ingin sekali lagi

Hey You

Hey You
How you doing? Have you been good? There was no day I passed by without talking to you.
Hey you
How’s life? Have you been missing me like I’m missing you? There was nothing I wasn’t telling you. Every thought. Every move.
Hey You
Are you still angry at us? Don’t you know that we’ve been disgusted by your attitude for so long? That promiscuity and despicability of yours. You disgust us. Yet we still stand by you, telling you to be good.
Hey You
Why do you leave? We’re not leaving you, so why are you? Did you really prefer adultery over true friendship? Did you value money more than love?
Hey You
I hope you find peace. I hope you find true love. I hope you find your way back to the light.

Woolf-like Goodbye

If I will ever someday believe in for-a-greater-good goodbye, this probably the reason.
Virginia Woolf’s suicide note, her very last piece of literature. So beautiful and raw. I quoted my favorite part :)

Dearest,

I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that – everybody knows it.

If anybody could have saved me it would have been you.

Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer.

I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.

Indeed, Mr. Neruda

Love is so short and forgetting is so long.

“I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and forgetting is so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.” 
― Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.” 

― Pablo Neruda