Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Goenawan Mohamad

ABOUT THAT MAN KILLED SOMETIME AROUND ELECTION DAY

“God, give me Your vote.”

The silence was the silence that follows a dog’s howl when the night watchman stumbled into the corpse by the dike. Face down, as if seeking the fragrance and warmth of paddy. But the fetid smell and the cold of the man’s cheeks were contorted by the moonlight. Then came the others—flashlights, torches and fireflies—but no one recognized him. He’s not one of us, the watchman said.

“God, give me Your vote.”

Beneath the kerosene lantern in the village chief’s office they found the gaping wounds. Bustling shadows; leftover whispers on the veranda. The man had no identity card. No name. No party affiliation. No emblem. He had no one to cry for him because we couldn’t. Whatever could his religion be?

“Great Mapmaker, where is my homeland?”

The day after the next they read about it in the city paper, on the front page. Someone cried without knowing why. Someone did not cry and did not know why. A worn out child fashioned a hat from the morning paper that was later blown away by the wind. Look up! To those kites in the air, in pairs, leaning on the breeze. Later the twilight birds perched on the wires as the cranes sailed towards day’s end, crossing the wasteland and those long streaks of color, like fading smoke.

“God, give me Your vote.”

Tentang Seorang yang Terbunuh di Sekitar Hari Pemilihan Umum

Tentang Seorang yang Terbunuh di Sekitar Hari Pemilihan Umum

“Tuhan, berikanlah suara-Mu, kepadaku.”

Seperti jadi senyap salak anjing ketika ronda menemukan mayatnya di tepi pematang. Telungkup. Seperti mencari harum dan hangat padi. Tapi bau asing itu dan dingin pipinya jadi aneh, di bawah bulan. Dan kemudian mereka pun berdatangan—senter, suluh, dan kunang-kunang—tapi tak seorang pun mengenalinya. Ia bukan orang sini, hansip itu berkata.

“Berikan suara-Mu.”

Di bawah petromaks kelurahan mereka menemukan liang luka yang lebih. Bayang-bayang bergoyang sibuk dan beranda meninggalkan bisik. Orang ini tak berkartu. Ia tak bernama. Ia tak berpartai. Ia tak bertanda gambar. Ia tak ada yang menangisi, karena kita tak bisa menangisi. Apa gerangan agamanya?

“Juru Peta yang Agung, di manakah tanah airku?”

Lusa kemudian mereka membacanya di koran kota, di halaman pertama. Ada seorang yang menangis entah mengapa. Ada seorang yang tak menangis entah mengapa. Ada seorang anak yang letih dan membikin topi dari koran pagi itu, yang diterbangkan angin kemudian. Lihatlah. Dia udara berpasang layang-layang, semua bertopang pada cuaca. Lalu burung-burung sore hinggap di kawat-kawat, sementara bangau-bangau menuju ujung senja, melintasi lapangan yang gundul dan warna yang panjang, seperti asap yang sirna.

“Tuhan, berikanlah suara-Mu, kepadaku.”
Close

ABOUT THAT MAN KILLED SOMETIME AROUND ELECTION DAY

“God, give me Your vote.”

The silence was the silence that follows a dog’s howl when the night watchman stumbled into the corpse by the dike. Face down, as if seeking the fragrance and warmth of paddy. But the fetid smell and the cold of the man’s cheeks were contorted by the moonlight. Then came the others—flashlights, torches and fireflies—but no one recognized him. He’s not one of us, the watchman said.

“God, give me Your vote.”

Beneath the kerosene lantern in the village chief’s office they found the gaping wounds. Bustling shadows; leftover whispers on the veranda. The man had no identity card. No name. No party affiliation. No emblem. He had no one to cry for him because we couldn’t. Whatever could his religion be?

“Great Mapmaker, where is my homeland?”

The day after the next they read about it in the city paper, on the front page. Someone cried without knowing why. Someone did not cry and did not know why. A worn out child fashioned a hat from the morning paper that was later blown away by the wind. Look up! To those kites in the air, in pairs, leaning on the breeze. Later the twilight birds perched on the wires as the cranes sailed towards day’s end, crossing the wasteland and those long streaks of color, like fading smoke.

“God, give me Your vote.”

ABOUT THAT MAN KILLED SOMETIME AROUND ELECTION DAY

“God, give me Your vote.”

The silence was the silence that follows a dog’s howl when the night watchman stumbled into the corpse by the dike. Face down, as if seeking the fragrance and warmth of paddy. But the fetid smell and the cold of the man’s cheeks were contorted by the moonlight. Then came the others—flashlights, torches and fireflies—but no one recognized him. He’s not one of us, the watchman said.

“God, give me Your vote.”

Beneath the kerosene lantern in the village chief’s office they found the gaping wounds. Bustling shadows; leftover whispers on the veranda. The man had no identity card. No name. No party affiliation. No emblem. He had no one to cry for him because we couldn’t. Whatever could his religion be?

“Great Mapmaker, where is my homeland?”

The day after the next they read about it in the city paper, on the front page. Someone cried without knowing why. Someone did not cry and did not know why. A worn out child fashioned a hat from the morning paper that was later blown away by the wind. Look up! To those kites in the air, in pairs, leaning on the breeze. Later the twilight birds perched on the wires as the cranes sailed towards day’s end, crossing the wasteland and those long streaks of color, like fading smoke.

“God, give me Your vote.”
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère