Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Afrizal Malna

teachers and students forbidden to enter burnt school

i don’t believe my own hands, which this morning
burnt hundreds of schools in my own city, schools
for my own children. i don’t believe my hands
which lit the flame, i don’t believe the flame which
burnt the school, i don’t believe that burnt school, i
don’t believe that event which burnt my thoughts, leaving
and not seeing you again full with barbed wire in your
face. i don’t believe stories which come from soy sauce
bottles at the soto stall near your house.

teachers and students are forbidden to enter
the burnt school. letting their own tongues become
a snake in front of the mirror. i don’t believe
the nation whose words are burnt. but teachers and
students keep going into that burnt school while
taking a handful of soil to save chalk, and still
writing shadows of a freedom, its back and its feet and neck.
and blackboard from the back of fire. and fire wants to
see your face, wants to see your look, wants to see 
the gaze of your eyes.

and fire wants to make a village, like the village
which gave birth to you. and fire rewrites all
these sentences in your mother\'s womb, before
children go to the road, see truck shadows passing and
signs of tears on palms.

guru dan murid dilarang masuk ke dalam sekolah yang terbakar

guru dan murid dilarang masuk ke dalam sekolah yang terbakar

aku tak percaya pada tanganku sendiri yang pagi ini
telah membakar ratusan sekolah di kotaku sendiri,
sekolah untuk anak-anakku sendiri. aku tak percaya
pada tanganku yang telah menyalakan api, aku tak
percaya pada api yang telah membakar sekolah itu,
aku tak percaya pada sekolah yang terbakar itu,
aku tak percaya pada peristiwa yang telah
membakar pikiranku, pergi dan tak mau melihatmu
lagi yang penuh dengan kawat berduri di wajahmu.
aku tak percaya berita yang datang dari botol-botol
kecap di warung soto dekat rumahmu.

guru dan murid-murid dilarang masuk ke dalam
sekolah yang terbakar. membiarkan lidah sendiri
menjadi ular di depan cermin. aku tak percaya pada
negeri yang kata-kata telah dibakar. tetapi guru
dan murid-murid tetap memasuki sekolah yang
terbakar itu sambil membawa segenggam tanah
untuk menyelamatkan kapur tulis, dan tetap
menulis bayangan sebuah kebebasan, punggung
dan kakinya dan lehernya. dan papan tulis dari
punggung api. dan api ingin melihat wajahmu, ingin
melihat air mukamu, ingin melihat tatapan matamu.

dan api ingin membuat sebuah kampung, seperti
kampung yang telah melahirkanmu. dan api
menuliskan kembali semua kalimat-kalimat ini
dalam rahim ibumu, sebelum anak-anak pergi ke
jalan, melihat bayangan truk melintas pergi dan
bekas air mata di telapak tangan.
Close

teachers and students forbidden to enter burnt school

i don’t believe my own hands, which this morning
burnt hundreds of schools in my own city, schools
for my own children. i don’t believe my hands
which lit the flame, i don’t believe the flame which
burnt the school, i don’t believe that burnt school, i
don’t believe that event which burnt my thoughts, leaving
and not seeing you again full with barbed wire in your
face. i don’t believe stories which come from soy sauce
bottles at the soto stall near your house.

teachers and students are forbidden to enter
the burnt school. letting their own tongues become
a snake in front of the mirror. i don’t believe
the nation whose words are burnt. but teachers and
students keep going into that burnt school while
taking a handful of soil to save chalk, and still
writing shadows of a freedom, its back and its feet and neck.
and blackboard from the back of fire. and fire wants to
see your face, wants to see your look, wants to see 
the gaze of your eyes.

and fire wants to make a village, like the village
which gave birth to you. and fire rewrites all
these sentences in your mother\'s womb, before
children go to the road, see truck shadows passing and
signs of tears on palms.

teachers and students forbidden to enter burnt school

i don’t believe my own hands, which this morning
burnt hundreds of schools in my own city, schools
for my own children. i don’t believe my hands
which lit the flame, i don’t believe the flame which
burnt the school, i don’t believe that burnt school, i
don’t believe that event which burnt my thoughts, leaving
and not seeing you again full with barbed wire in your
face. i don’t believe stories which come from soy sauce
bottles at the soto stall near your house.

teachers and students are forbidden to enter
the burnt school. letting their own tongues become
a snake in front of the mirror. i don’t believe
the nation whose words are burnt. but teachers and
students keep going into that burnt school while
taking a handful of soil to save chalk, and still
writing shadows of a freedom, its back and its feet and neck.
and blackboard from the back of fire. and fire wants to
see your face, wants to see your look, wants to see 
the gaze of your eyes.

and fire wants to make a village, like the village
which gave birth to you. and fire rewrites all
these sentences in your mother\'s womb, before
children go to the road, see truck shadows passing and
signs of tears on palms.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère