Pants slipping down in Jakarta
in an area quiet amid the turmoil
people scream by the edge of the lake
“Pants slipping, pants slipping!”
and shames are laid bare
but the voices fade away
between cassava stalks and banana leaves.
Pants slipping down in Jakarta,
and nakedness is exposed
but not a single soul objects
to the dropping of a piece of clothing
pants slipping, pants slipping
the owner of the pants never realizes
their shame is broadcast, idiocy circulates
because their friends are clapping hands
while rolling out a carpet strewn with flowers
Pants slipping down in Jakarta
in narrow alleys citizens clash fiercely
LPG is scarce, basic foods sky-high
Pants slipping in the capital city
at the edge of the village people sit lost in thought
scrambling for fertilizer under the overcast sky
stomachs twisting, livestock convulsing
children cannot be dropped off
at the school gates or university benches
“Pants slipping, pants slipping!”
people scream without a sound
save for lightning borrowed from hell
and the cries of a baby who keeps vomiting
Pants slipping down in Jakarta
What has dropped is not a piece of cloth
but rather the care mandated to them
and empathy absorbed by airplane engines
“Pants slipping, pants slipping!”
suddenly a flock of Ababil birds appears from the horizon
Pants slipping down in Jakarta
but what is exposed is no secret
other than the death of the heart, time and again
for rejecting whispers and pinches of conscience,
busy wiping clean the stale, foaming words
Pants slipping, pants slipping
Does humanity still mean anything
The tension between the tongue and death
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