To Leonard Cohen
moss ceramics history buried by tens of wounds, the precipitated event piles as plankton, dissolved oil dressing your head, walked on through the edge of continent, the questions strikes this frozen wall, a series of sentences that settles in the glass, the bleak tones, the trees of the world of dreams, the forest of words, you're standing on the edge of a small river, who looked up to heaven? Then open the identity of this song, at first glance is never seen, only the rhythm permeates the soul, and like the wind gently blowing, suddenly flushed dusk, resigned murmur, swallow the valley, the sound is lost in the echoes, the poem becomes oil consolation, led to an eternity, you take another step, slowly into the valley, singing will be gone, but you never worry, because the books have you singing rewrite it.
Imam Setiaji Ronoatmojo
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