Tomorrow, my Love. In ths south
five hours travel without lights,
eyes of a horse that is paralyzed
and 1.000 km that have lost light.

In the south, the forest throws off its clothing
large logs of wood, smell of rubber sap,
dead earth, the sound of chainsaws
continuously grunting.

Tomorrow my Love. Cold
too deeply attacked by the movement of tea buds
is a view far away, so very far away.

Perhaps, in the south,
there will be notes left behind. When morning falls
dense fog from waist of the mountain
passes over slopes of hills stretched in a line.
Perhaps it is true something will be left behind.

Translated by Marjorie Ruth Suanda (Utankayu-Salihara International Literary Bienalle 2011)

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