Merahnya Dharamsala

selimut merah marun
masih bersibak harum
dharamsala

tetes salju pernah mengendap
dingin udara pernah meresap
dalam gelap

malam-malam sepi
dalam detak dada yang terbaring
jemari yang mencari
terkatup hingga pagi

di tanah ini
ziarah-ziarah sunyi
terjadi

dalam keheningannya
aku menghirup
segala kenanganmu
segala ingatan
dan memori

dan pada segala kehilangan
dalam mata biksu
yang menatap nanar
api yang tengah menyala

di tanah mereka
jauh disana

lilin tak lagi cukup menerangi
tubuh telah menjadi sumbu

betapa, betapa merahnya
dharamsala

dalam matamu
aku mengingat
segala cerita

pada akhirnya kita semua adalah pengungsi
dalam naungan buddha
dan dalam doa yang kelak
menyala dalam lilin biasa

The Red of Dharamsala

The red maroon blanket
still smell of Dharamsala

The drip of snow has once precipitate
The cold air has once seep through
In the darkness

Lonely nights
Inside the beating chest whom had lied down
The lingering fingers
Clasping together until morning

In this land
The silent pilgrimages
Existed

In its quietness
I breath
All your memories
All memories
Which once mine

And in every lost
At the monk’s eyes
That stared at
The burning fire

On their land
Far away

Candles no longer illuminate
Bodies has become the burning thread

How red, oh how red is
Dharamsala

Inside your eyes
I remember
Every stories

In the end we all are taking refugee
Under the auspices of Buddha
And in the prayer that one day
Can light like an ordinary candle

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