POEM OF JIWA
Chapter 1: Repressed
— — —
Panji is he, a youth in pain
Passionless and shallow at school,
Attendance, only in written paper
School friends talking empty
Encasing him in alienation
Except of two
An Angelic descend since child, Syifa
Immeasurable in memories of pure heart
The flowers a bloom as such he is no longer worthy
An orbital wealth and beauty, and insurmountable honor
Truly he never is, never will, and never was worthy
And there is Collin, the strongest bridge of a friend
Immovable even when faced with multifarious waves
Together with them on a trip back home.
Sit in the bus, the middle with the brightest smile
Though this time, a mission he must finish
As Panji tries to walk between two worlds
A student and a person in the virtual world
Mobile gaming, an only talent to gain audience
Though a dust of incompetence could grow
And burn to a flame of insecurities. Alas he grown tired of all the sparks
“Panji. Try some poetry”, Collin tells passionately
“I am crass and harsh. Poetry must be soothing as a cloud. That, I could never be.”
“You can be… Because you have me.”
“What?” Then his eyes glued to a bay-colored leather book,
Shining, bold with snake-like scales, shivers down his spine remarkably thrilling
“I’m still not sure,” Panji pushed. But Collin only say
“Just try to be. Because I need you in this gig.”
Unbearable to deny, twitchy fingers puts the book in the bag
“Here’s my stop. See you later, you two.” He passes.
The book draws him in. Mystical, dense, and cold
“What is it? A book?” Syifa moves closer.
“Go away. This is none of your business.” Panji shouts.
“I’m curious, Panji. Nothing to be screamed about.””
Silence. Right. He shouts. Not because he wants,
Because he must. For each other’s sake.
The bus stops at Pejaten station, She stood,
“This is my stop. See you around, Panji.”
“Yeah,” he says, cold as north. The burden weigh’s more
“Care to come abode? It’s a while since you last showed.”
“I’m busy,” He says crassly. Syifa only nods.
There he is. Alone, an only audience to see angel go.
Palm sweaty. Knees weak and his face heavy,
“I’m sorry, Syifa. We are worlds apart. Worlds much apart.”
The book he grabs, another thrill down his spine.
Sounds soft as breath, as calm breath says, “JIWA”.
— — —
You can hear the reading by podcasts with the links below:
Anchor, Breaker, Google Podcast, Apple podcast, Overcast, Pocket Casts, RadioPublic, Spotify.
— — —
Support me:
