Take it all off.
I want to see.
Lie flat on what is likely to one day be,
with enough money,
a UNESCO World Heritage site,
because this is where we will make history,
you and I,
atop Sundaland’s ancient, antediluvian brow.
Brown earth, in fistfuls.
I smell hills, and fire in your hair.
Someone left the stars untouched across your sky.
Someone else left the full moon bare.
Reveal your heritage to me,
raw, racing, deracinated, decolonised.
The field is too verdant for who this should be;
the colours too white and grey.
Muddy me softly,
my waters and wars,
until I am darker than the oldest colour of the sky.
At last, I can see it.
At last, I can feel it.
This is where the ships once docked.
Where the junks plied their trade,
and the tongkangs their turmeric touch.
Line me with the spices that I took from you,
not so very long ago,
and give meaning to my tasteless light.
A berth in harbour.
A watchtower by the sea.
A green, endless plain, more darkling than divine;
this is what it means to be free.