When I read this morning's paper, I found your body baked
on a page. I can not bear to look too long
your charred body.
I can only wait for the fire department to arrive,
extinguish the flames that are still burning, and avoid the people
who is faithful to the audience.
I'm not a good audience.
I can not cry, laugh, or clap my hands.
Once the fire is ready to leave you are hard to recognize.
Even your identification, which is only a laminated paper
also burned. Your fingerprint--
a futile attempt to know the identity. Later,
someone must have come crying, wailing
calling that love and hope you've left it
never more treacherous than the country that betrayed his people.
When I read the paper this morning, I did not know where
later you will be buried.
Perhaps people who know you want Kalibata.
But, even the burial ground in Jakarta is difficult to buy.
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