(translation) For P – Saut Situmorang

in my city
which never tastes
your hot lips
night falls and blackens all

streets are nothing
but tarred lines
drained out of moisture
of rain
the lust of seasons

and words are dispelled
to baked hills
where dead things are buried.

and moon shadows
paint more silence

and woofs are unheard
to snatch me as they did
from your warm, black hair

love and bard, are they both dead?
or am i just missing you?

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