for saraswita laksmi
By Komang Ira Puspitaningsih
In the falling rain, the station is covered by fog.
Fifteen minutes have passed since your scheduled arrival
A handful of memories I await,
in your suitcase and knapsack
Is this rain able
to shoulder again the memories
and carry them away
before stopping at this station?
There is no flower seller here,
no sign of the one you once pointed out
only half-rusted chairs
that creak each time I straighten my back
With the falling rain
the fog sows distance in my view
At the moment the train arrives
my eyes look around, seeking a flower seller
while remembering a faint voice
“We’ll meet near the flower seller.”
Rain turns into drizzle, the fog grows thicker
until I can feel it washing my face
It is true,
there is no flower seller here, my love
So how am I to know
your frozen face?