Like a simple death the shadow of a clock tower stretches slowly to the village square.
In the last quarter of an afternoon a man lies with his back to the sun and listens for the blackbirds returning to the hills in the distance.
Arrest dusk in windows before the sky goes limp and the season goes sour.
Above everything: tian, en couleur locale, streched taut, old and square, runs a ring around this mortal coil.
– Goenawan Mohamad, Kompas, 23 October 2005. (a kind of draft.)