Antis sol subih
tudu ja pindurah, ja fazeh lesti
pra sugah:
ropa muladu,
pintura bemfetu,
tudu angkoza di
mufinu-mufinu
tomah kung forsa di lei
bai porta nteh kaza.
Antis Fajr,
familia ta rezah,
nzelu na chang,
olu ta sufrah:
Deus, parah akeli dia.
Ubida duru;
mas nteh nada di repostah.
Kada ngua eternu
kaladu.
Chegah tempu,
korsang ta sufrih onsong.
Bentu ta sufrah, ngua kung otru.
Chegah sol.
Nubis tarteh pra seu.
Bida mistih sigih
seng rezah,
seng rezang.
Bentu ja sufrah.
Mas Singapura, bos nggeh ubih.
Ubida duru;
nteh nada di agu
na ropa ta sugah
na rentu di saiki.
Nteh nada di chadisa.
Nteh nada di sintidu.
Yo ja buskah angkoza apapoitu,
palabra podih lumiah
raiba antigu, ta fikah karat.
Sempri
mutu tantu sedu.
Ropa nadi sugah.
Lagri nadi parah.
Sanggi nadi limpah.
Before the sun rises,
Everything has been hung out, ready
to dry:
wet, damp clothes,
beautiful, hanging frames,
and all the things, all the belongings
of the condemned and the wretched
taken by force of law
to the door without a home.
Before Fajr,
the family already pray,
kneeling on the ground,
eyes whispering to the earth:
God, stop this day.
Ears hard, stubborn, still willing for a fight;
there is no answer.
Every eternity
lifelessly silent.
When the time arrives,
the heart suffers alone.
The winds whisper, one after another.
The sun is adequate.
Clouds stagger through the sky.
Life must follow,
without prayer,
without sense.
The winds warned us.
But Singapore, you have not listened.
Hardened ears;
But it is not water
that is drying on the clothesline
inside the psyche.
There is nothing clever here.
Nothing sensible at all.
I have looked for something sensible,
words that can illuminate
rusting, ancient rage.
It is always
too early.
The clothes will never dry.
The tears will never stop.
The blood can never be cleaned away.