Well said, Madame Piaf.
Well said indeed.
It is the usual meadow.
We regularly visit it: the recreational tea field, located at somewhere uphill, two-hours driving distance from odorless capital city where we live.
It is a ritual: we arrived, we ran toward the stable, we chose our own horses, and then we left for the restaurant nearby to grab a cup of lemon tea. Or two. Before we rode our horses.
I wore a cap that day.
A jacket? I think it’s grey. Some shorts and indistinct pair of shoes.
I ride my horse. We went for the usual turn, usual route.
The meadow, the creek, the trees. Every turn I’ve known very well.
Then the guardian asked me,
“Do you mind speeding up?”
Bring it on, I said.
The guardian then smacked the horse’s buttock and it ran faster.
I was thrilled.
I was ecstatic.
“Wohooo!” I could hear myself saying.
Okay, that’s enough.
The cap fell from my head. My hair slapped me on the cheek.
The corner of my eyes felt wet.
Somethings clutched my chest.
It was fear.
I wish someone would save me.
So I screamed.
But I’m on my own.
I’ve always been.
I ended up being saved by my dad. That was 10 years ago.
And now, I can’t keep asking people to fight my battle.
This is me, riding a horse.
Speeding up to the point it starts to pain me, out of fear.
what do I fear for?
I can’t stop. I can’t make it stop.
So why should I care of what’s ahead.
I may very well close my eyes right now.
Feel the wind on my skin.
Que sera sera.
A woman, middle-aged, lying on the bed.
She shed tears, overflowing.
Her legs and arms grew limp.
The way saliva drooled from the corner of her mouth.
The way mucus came out of her nostrils.
Oh. The way she pumped out all that tears.
She should’ve passed out any moment now, should she?
Her body seemed inert.
Nobody would’ve imagine her in any other shape.
As if she was made to cry that way, in that precise bed, and that exact position,
For days and days and days.
Until people talk about it and made legend out of it.
But she’s not alone.
There’s a child, watching her. A girl-child.
Her face were stoic.
Isn’t she just lumps of human meat, shaped like human,
which someone just put on the bed, and made to shed tears like human?
Or is she a withered flower?
Sitting beside her, the girl-child didn’t touch the woman.
Though she’s her mother.
We need to talk about the child
don’t you think?
Apa pula tertinggal di muka
Selain dari sepasang kristal jiwa
Dibingkai bulu mata, terpancar tatapnya
Menghunus, kata mereka!
Tak sejentik mereka duga
Sungguhnya pada lampu jalanan ia bercinta
Pembuai remuk redam dini hari
Pelempar seleret cahaya di betis
Jatuh segaris dengan peluh manusia rasa amis
Apa pula tersisa di muka
Jika bukan sebentuk lekuk penakluk
Dinaung hidung, tersemat bagai pita
Berbisa, kata mereka!
Sungguhnya gigi kuning rela bersaksi
Tentang pita yang terurai dan merekah
Kala yang empunya bertegur sapa
Tanpa niatan apa-apa
Meski yang berlidah lihai bicara,
Yang melihat lantang menantang,
Kalau tak dikata, manalah mereka kira
Akan kolonye sisa gesekan tiga-empat pejabat
Dada sisa remasan dua-tiga bandot tua
Rambut sisa jambakan satu-dua pemuda gila
Kala mereka tangkap sejejak kerak di muka,
Derai tawa dan tatap darinya kini beda makna.
Buang muka, tak balas sapa.
Kala ditanya, satulah jawab mereka:
Itu lacur namanya!
I want to live a thousand lives,
Feel a thousand vibes,
See through a thousand eyes!
I want to fall into a thousand vices,
And wounded by a thousand lies.
In love for a thousand times,
Broken for a thousand hearts.
Lead a thousand battles,
Slave to a thousand quarrels.
Win a thousand fights,
Lose a thousand more.
Kiss a thousand nights,
Flirt a thousand mornings.
Pray for a thousand dreams,
Curse for a thousand nothings.
Smile a thousand pains,
Cry a thousand bliss.
Being in a thousand shoes,
Build a thousand homes.
Then I die,
A thousand times.
To open up my eyes to a thousand different skies!
I want to live.
I want to live.
I want to live.
A thousand times, I will.
April 13th, 2015