By Dorothea Rosa Herliany
I write on the folds of my weary face which tell of my discontent with the ever-diminished flow of the river that encircles the ribs of our city. like an insouciant vein not chanelling blood to the corners of your body. each falling leaf and the rising mist sings of my melancholy for the ever-restless passing days. column after column of moments paint the passion of the grass and the anger of silent stones.
I write my letter, with no sign of longing. decripted years accompany the journey of a heart that has known not love. dried casings of time lie scattered about. new moss-covered days rise on the barren plain.
I write this letter on the bright sky above the curve of the road crossing empty space. a procession of prams and coffins hurry past as if searching for names and addresses.
I will never send it to anyone …
Translated by Harry Aveling