The Story Of An Old Man Who Died This Morning As Told By A Friend Who Said He Will Be A Poet One Day

This is sad.
An old man at the intersection, dead, next to the traffic lights.
His belly, concave like glasses for the near-sighted.
A fly, knee deep in sores full of pus, electric yellow like the colours of the prostitutes’ clothes.
I’m standing next to him.
And I’m thinking.
Am I going to end up like this,
Dead like a dog with my legs spread open?

(Adri Darmadji Woko, in Penyair Muda Di Depan Forum, Dewan Kesenian Jakarta 1976, p. 63)

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