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the trunks of the sawo trees, the cold black sand, the old burnt palace, the dark pendopo, the watermarked angels and goddesses, the white eyes, a brazier of glowing charcoal, pretty shop attendants, brief obi like an afterthought, you would believe in anything, a lake under the midday sun,  

North Freedom St., Jakarta

F. Rahardi   on the kerb mahoganies stand with the raintrees the angsanas in coats of black exhaust and watch suits and ties bulging suitcases shiny shoes polished everyday the bowing drivers and the bodyguards erect like pencils lift their heads up let the wind hit and the tamarind leaves fall like snow on sweatyContinue reading “North Freedom St., Jakarta”