Geneva Bulan Juli Geneva in July

Geneva Bulan Juli

akhirnyapasrah kepada musim
dan hidup jadinya seperti buku
(yang tidak terlalu tebal tentu)
dengan halaman berurut
untuk dibalikkan satu per satu
 
bila tidaktiba-tiba gadis di Geneva itu
menyeberang jalan begitu saja
sambil berlari tidak peduli tapi
hati-hati membawa bunga di tangannya
 
memang kuingatperempuan tua berkerudung hitam
dengan keranjang mawar melewati meja
dan kau bertanya sederhana:
"apakah suka bunga-bunga?"
 
seperti biasakujawab dengan kebimbangan panjang
dengan jaripada daguku kau palingkan mukaku penuh
kepadamu
janji punterkalahkan oleh musim yang
rebah-rebah pada hari tanpa angin
mawar puntinggalkan debu, malam Geneva hangat nafsu
akan tinggalkan kantuk dan terlalu penat nanti
 
sedangkangelisah, terganggu risau tak pasti lagi
siapa engkau siapa aku ini
 
mungkin sekaliengkau dalam kereta antara Paris
dan Geneva menutup jendela, janganlah
angina mengganggu rambutku
 
atau waktupernah suatu kelancangan telah terjadi
turun dari kereta api, sekali lagi kau
rayu singgah di kota tanpa nama
untuk menikmatinya bersama-sama
 
mengembaraadalah menangggalkan nama, melepaskan bumi
benda-benda kemilau dipermainkan angin
 
dan sangsimana pula yang lebih nyata, berjalan
merunduk karena angina kencang, atau
gemerlapan lampu di Amsterdam
 
bunga, malam, dan kota-kotatersisip antara yang sengaja dikenang
merata, seperti kata-kata di hari senja
meskisemakin menjurang ruang antara
uscapan yang bertumbukan
 
bila tidaktiba-tiba kelepak sayap angsa putih
berlima perlahan terbang menyongsong bulan
tinggalkan danau menggenang sunyi
kita terdiamsejak dahulu memang, yang
tidak terucapkan, lebih berarti
 
1968
 

Geneva in July

Finally
I surrender to the passing seasons
and life becomes like a book
(not a long one, certainly)
with numbered pages
to be turned one by one -
 
what if
that girl in Geneva
hadn't suddenly crossed the road
running, without paying attention
carefully holding flowers in her hands?
 
I clearly remember
the old woman in a black headscarf
passing the table with a basket of roses
and you asking simply,
‘Do you like flowers?'
 
As always
I replied after a long hesitation
and you cupped my chin and turned my face
fully towards you.
 
All promises
were defeated by a time
of windless days;
the roses would turn to dust
and the passionate Geneva nights
would leave us yawning.
 
There would be disturbance, nervousness, uncertainty
Who are you? Who am I?
You would probably have closed the window
on the train between Paris and Geneva
in case the wind ruffled my hair.
 
Or, when something untoward had happened,
you would have persuaded me to step off the train
to stay in a nameless town,
enjoy it together.
 
To travel
is to shed one's name, to become ungrounded,
a glistening object played with by the wind;
 
and what is more real - walking
with head bowed against the force of the wind,
or the dark lights of Amsterdam?
 
Flowers, night, towns and cities
slip in between things one wishes to remember
spread out, like words at dusk,
a deepening gulf between conflicting utterances.
 
What if
with a sudden flapping of wings
five white swans
had not flown slowly towards the moon
leaving the lake filled with solitude.
We remain silent.
 
Yes, there has always been
more meaning in what's left unspoken.
 
1968
 
Coming soon!
 

Original Poem by

Toeti Heraty

Translated by

Ulrich Kratz with Carole Satyamurti Language

Indonesian

Country

Indonesia