rie yanti

What if the rose you care for
hurts you with its thorns?
Will you still care for her,
or will you turn your face
to another flower?

What if the rain you wait for
falls in another place?
Will you still wait,
or will you go inside your room
and paint the sky of grey?

I fell in love with the morning sun.
Creeping up the hill and
softly touching my skin
But he can’t stay warm forever.
The more he shows himself,
the more I get heat and burnt.

What if your paper boat
that floats in the river
is stopped by a big black stone?
Will you let it be damaged
and make another one,
then send it down to another river?

And what if the leaves
you collect every morning
choose to scatter across your yard?
Will you gather them again,
or let them cover your garden?

I wonder,
does the rose know that
so many people love it?
Even the thorns that grow from its stem
don’t discourage anyone from picking it,
just to express their love.

I, too, once fell in love
and wanted to ask a rose for help.
Just to convince someone that
I’m not playing around.
I’m romantic.

But then I felt foolish.
How could I love someone if
I didn’t love the rose?

The rose grows because
its roots love the universe
that raised it.

Next time,
when I fell in love again,
I chose to remain silent.
I no longer wanted to express my love.

I felt more at peace,
watching the rose grow and bloom,
radiating its beauty and fragrance.
It knows better how to love.

And I think that’s why we all love it.

Without ever saying a word.

I cook for dinner:
a pot of soup and chicken drumsticks.
The salt sinks to the bottom of the pot,
and the chicken turns brown.
The aroma of both fills the air.
But my mind wanders to the sunset
spilling purple on the horizon.
So many words to describe
how the sky changes because of the sun.
I want to run to my papers
and reach my pen.
Only to document the scene.
But wait!
I can’t leave the kitchen.
The vegetables will soften
and these chicken drumsticks will burn.
Like the sky, left behind by the sun.

I take a shower.
The puff foams like a mouth
uttering many words.
Water sprays from the tap.
And I think of the rain,
soft drops sliding down the window.
So many words to describe
how the world is conquered by water’s touch.
I want to run to my papers
and reach my pen.
But my hands are still covered in soap.
I must finish scrubbing myself
or this dirt will cling to my skin forever.
Like a memory that refuses to fade.

It’s time to sleep.
The stars twinkle playfully,
trying to cheer the dark sky.
I think of the moon,
Its pale light casting long shadows
on my bedroom wall.
So many words to describe
how the moon uses the night’s darkness to reveal itself.
I want to run to my papers
and reach my pen.
But my body is weighed down by the day’s burden.
I must sleep soon,
or tomorrow I’ll wake late,
busy with tasks, missing the chance
to pour my ideas onto the page.

And when I finally sit,
pen in hand at the long-waiting table,
all the words have slipped away.
Like yesterday, when I had no time to capture them.