Академический Документы
Профессиональный Документы
Культура Документы
By Goenawan Muhamad
Even if she had her own dreams. She dreamt of mounds of flour,
drizzling, like grumbling. On as grassland. Half a dozen
people running, escaping, from the sun. They are all my
children, she said. All are my children.
But the did not know where they went, because thay had not returned since. The youngest, from
some Russian town, never
wrote. The eldest had simply vanished. The other four has sent
only one letter with a single sentence,
We are but traitors, Ma.
Perhaps there was still a young woman left, on a distant prayer rug, (or maybe that was just a dream
returning,)
who did not know her. She often communicated with the silent
language of a factory smoke. She dared not know who she was.
She dared not know.
23 maret 2017