My earth is my bed,
quiet filtering,
cold porch.
When death picks up,
my body scooped up this body,
all ages that have been closed,
even this bone and meat will never be iron or stone.
It's weather weathery signs,
hot and cold all day,
life suffering cannot be forever overcome,
I don't let this mixture spoil my heart,
or let the footsteps find their own way,
treat sore wounds on my earth,
in my complaint.
My earth,
quiet mix,
a place I understand the meaning of contempt and sadness,
in all loneliness wailing crying,
here I struggle and enjoy all the meaning of true love,
eternal
-------
Bogor December 23, 1995
@All Right Reserved
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