for aditya karna
By Komang Ira Puspitaningsih
With all the small
and nameless streets
I never remember
where your house is:
down that lane across the road
or in front of where I now am
But I can still hear
three balladeers singing
a somber song,
accompaniment to the sobs
of an old woman
who bears offerings
for your soul
Who is it that whispers
about the wind you left behind,
about the darkened waves
and the sea’s deep bottom
where sadness is made eternal
Now, on a pile of dried twigs
no longer surrounded by hundreds of black ants
a red dragonfly
closes its wings
I see your reflection there
sitting on an old bench
in an old park.
with yellowed leaves falling
on dried grass
Translations by John McGlynn