Failing to gallop over a huge rock,
He thinks he would never know
How to run again. He remembers
The mouth mysterious
That a while ago whispered
Traces and routes.
He would no longer mind
The uncut beard, but home,
How his youngest scratches
His stomach, stretches,
Before lying down on the bamboo bed;
How his little girl at midday
Picks Rambutan leaves
And imagines them as money bills.
How his wife tries to hide tears
As she answers innocent
Questions about his return.
Passing by broken trees and burnt grass,
He asks for Allah’s guidance.
Soon he shall know about his flight.
Yet he continues to run,
Seeking answers from wind and dew.
