My ancestor
has long slept beneath that mound of mountain,
wrapped in the forest that shields my village,
beneath a blanket of deep black golden stone.
I ask You,
What is a book, O God?
Why does a book turn a stranger into a challenger,
armed only with my ancestor’s black stone,
carried along the pulse of my earth’s veins?
What is a hand, O God?
Why does the act of holding make me fall silent
When they arrive with guards,
shooting into a flock of prey
But that prey… is me, O God.
All this, only, only…
for a patch of land to bury myself in, someday.
What is a home, O God?
Why has a home turned unkind
to one who smells of earth and roots?
Once… this was my home, but You were my foundation of life.
I was Your worshipper
them I do not know.
If You bury me beneath Your wrath,
then bury them beneath Your might.
This poem is a translation version of “Bukit Nenek Moyangku” that has been published on Kompas: https://www.kompas.id/artikel/puisi-puisi-ramita-paraswati