Category Archives: Puisi

Rubrik Puisi | Puisi-puisi Erwin Setia

DI WARUNG MAKAN CEPAT SAJI

Hidupmu seperti roda kereta pada hari raya
Kau lupa rumah dan jalan pulang
Pada sebuah kursi warung makan
Kau serahkan tubuhmu yang lejar

Kepada pelayan yang pura-pura bahagia
Kau memesan sesuatu di luar menu
“Saya ingin seporsi masa muda
Tanpa pertanyaan-pertanyaan soal masa depan.”

Pelayan teringa-inga dalam kesunyian kata
Di luar anak-anak hujan berkeluyuran
“Dan segelas masa dewasa yang hangat
Tanpa lingkungan dan kawan yang keparat.”

Kau dan pelayan bertatapan tanpa bahasa
Pada bola matanya yang syahda
Kau lihat dirimu kaku dan terlindas
Laju waktu yang tak kenal tuntas

Cibiru, 2019

 

SABTU MALAM DI BRAGA

ribuan lampu menyala
seperti mengabarkan pesta
segera dimulai

dan tak akan berakhir
tubuh-tubuh bergoyang
tangan-tangan bergandengan
kaki-kaki bergegas

seolah tak akan berhenti

pukul empat
seorang bule berjalan sempoyongan
menghadap dinding tua

dan berkata:
“aku mencintaimu seperti malam
mencintai orang-orang yang bersedih.”

Bandung, April 2019

 

CATATAN DI BRAGA

Kita duduk pada suatu sore,
sepasang bule bercakap dalam bahasa asing
mungkin sejarah, paket wisata, atau sekadar hal biasa
kita tidak tahu dan saling tertawa
memandang punggung menjauh, gedung-gedung,
sebuah toko buku sembunyi di ujung jalan—

Sebentar lagi senja turun
tanpa hujan, cahaya memudar, mobil mini berputar
barangkali seseorang lupa jalan atau sesuatu tertinggal
kita tidak tahu dan perlahan bangkit
meninggalkan kursi, jejak kaki—pergi
tanpa janji kembali

Cibiru, 2019

 

MENDENGARKAN RINTIHAN FREDDIE MERCURY

Mama, aku tak pernah membunuh siapa-siapa
Namun algojo berscythe itu selalu mengintaiku
Ketika dentang-dentang waktu membisu

Mama, aku baru belajar cara bernapas yang benar
Namun hidup membenamkan kepalaku kelewat dalam
Menggeretku ke terowongan panjang tanpa bayang

Mama, aku tak ingin membuatmu menangis
Terlampau limpah air bersimbah dari tubuhmu
Darah, susu, keringat, air-air kehidupan

Mama, aku ingin kembali mendekam di rahimmu
Di mana aku bisa memeluk tanpa batas
Terpejam tanpa mengkhawatirkan hari lepas—

Cibiru, 2019

 

BIODATA PENULIS

Erwin Setia lahir tahun 1998. Penikmat puisi dan prosa. Kini menempuh pendidikan di Prodi Sejarah dan Peradaban Islam UIN Sunan Gunung Djati Bandung. Tulisan-tulisannya pernah dimuat di berbagai media seperti Koran Tempo, Media Indonesia, Pikiran Rakyat, Minggu Pagi, Solopos, Haluan, Koran Merapi, Padang Ekspres, dan Detik.com. Cerpennya terhimpun dalam Dosa di Hutan Terlarang (2018). Bisa dihubungi di Instagram @erwinsetia14 atau melalui surel: erwinsetia2018@gmail.com.

 

Ayo kirimkan puisimu ke Rubrik Puisi Catatan Pringadi.

 

Puisi-puisi Ananda Saiful Bahri

Hikayat

setinggi apapun kita bisa rias imaji,
kita bisa berada di langit, kita bisa
berada di laut, di sungai, di kali di
danau bahkan merantau ke pulau-
pulau. berada di manapun kita bisa.
sekan-akan kita berada di ranting
bunga, jadi kayu jadi dahan jadi apa
tinggal hiasi pikiran biru. seolah-olah
kita masuk ke hutan rimba jadi batu
jadi angin jadi ingin tak patah hati.
buanglah kesedihanmu ke sedihnya,
tanggalkan kesedihanmu di bibir
waktu, tularkan pada rumput pada
tanah pada kabut pada resah pada-
pada apa saja. tentu ini jadi jalan dan
pelajaran, berselingkuh bagi waktu.
tetapi, dua hal imajinasi yang sulit
kujadikan bait puisi: berada di
berduan dekat kecupan kenyataan.

(2019)

Cinta

Selamat menunaikan ibadah khayalan
khusus daerah perasaan dan sekitarnya

Perempuan adalah khayal. Khayalan
adalah perawan. Aku ingin jadi wanita.

Biar kutahu bagaimana perasaannya
ketika ia mencintai tapi tak dicintai.

Biar kutahu bagaimana perasaannya
ketika ia dicintai tapi tak mencintai?

(2019)

 

Ibadah Kopi

keluh kopi malam teriak mencicik mata
air doa. tersisa ranum sejarah kematian.

ia, abadi di atas perkawinan deru waktu.
riwayat tanah rawi menyambut kematian.
tersesat di malamya. tercabik iga makna.

tetiba hitam menyembah lamunan kopi
semalaman. ibadah kopi: putih menetas
di permukaan tajam batu. tangan-tangan
hitam merenggut ritual dosa pura-pura.
sekali di pahitnya, seribu manis merayu.

(2019)

 

Doa Sungai

sehabis puisi pergi, tubuh
sungai membuang tangis
serupa retorika waktu,
meradang sajak gelisah ke
terbing-terbing peristiwa;
menggantinya dengan doa.

zuhur.

terdengar retorika sungai
berdoa khusuk memilih
diam di alif-nun langit-Nya

“Allahuma, riak mengalir
ke tubir frasa ciptaan-Mu.
dosaku lebih dalam,
rinduku lebih panjang.
lebih dalam dari detik
terbawa mata terpaut dosa.
lebih panjang dari khayalan
menikmati semu kesepian”

kabut tebal riuh mengkayal.
pening mata sungai terjajah
panorama. merasa ia berdosa
jikalau hidup menolak doa.

“Tuhan, haruskah aku bertemu
simpang muara ke laut tenang.
atau haruskah ikan terlantar
di perut azan perjumpaan?”

(2019)

 

Fragmen Sepi

rintik mata hujan di luar
diam membagi fragmen sepi
pada rimbun-rimbun lamun
jua pada pucuk duka gita kota

suatu sepi, ia meronta tilas
sunyi mencabut akar-akar puisi.

tangan malam. menjelma kilau
mata. menyiksa rintihan doa.

sekilas, kita gusar akan ikhtiar
rinai dikawal doa-doa tujuh warna

(2019)

 

Puisi Saiful Bahri

Saiful Bahri, kelahiran Sumenep-Madura, 5 Februari 1995. Ia mengabdi di Madrasah Al-Huda. Mahasiswa aktif di STAIM Terate Sumenep. Tulisannya pernah dimuat di berbagai media massa.

 

Ayo, kirimkan Puisimu ke Rubrik Puisi Catatan Pringadi

 

Rubrik Puisi Catatan Pringadi

Catatan Pringadi akan membuka rubrik puisi mulai April. Rubrik puisi ini akan hadir dua minggu sekali, tayang setiap Jumat minggu genap.

Penasaran gimana syarat dan caranya:

1. Rubrik ini khusus buat kamu yang berusia maksimal 25 tahun.

2. Kirimkan 3-5 puisimu ke sajakpringadi@gmail.com.

3. Jangan lupa sertakan biodata singkat dan fotomu yang mungkin paling keren. Jika tidak suka berfoto, ya nggak usah pakai foto.

Puisi yang dikirim boleh telah dimuat di mana saja. Bila puisimu tayang, saya hanya baru bisa memberi apresiasi berupa pulsa Rp25.000. Doakan biar dapat sponsor biar apresiasinya bisa bertambah.

Update: Tempo Institute akan memberi 1 buah buku sebagai apresiasi bagi yang dimuat puisinya.

Silakan bagikan informasi ini jika bermanfaat.

 

Salam literasi!

10 of the Best Sylvia Plath Poems Everyone Should Know

(Segera diterjemahkan ke Bahasa Indonesia)

The best poems by Sylvia Plath

I.

‘Lady Lazarus’. Lazarus is the man in the New Testament who is raised from the dead by Jesus. Plath gives the name a twist in this poem, one of Plath’s finest poems, by linking it to her numerous suicide attempts. ‘Lady Lazarus’ contains the famous line ‘dying is an art’, among many other haunting and memorable lines and images.


Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air
Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
 

Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)


II.

‘Daddy’. One of Sylvia Plath’s most famous poems, ‘Daddy’ controversially links the father in the poem to a Nazi officer, and references the Holocaust. Variously seen as a highly autobiographical ‘confessional’ poem and as an extremely loose fictionalised account of Plath’s own relationship to her father (an entomologist and bee-expert who died when Plath was just eight), ‘Daddy’ continues to generate much discussion amongst Plath’s readers and critics.


Daddy

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.
If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
Sylvia Plath, “Daddy” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)


III.

‘You’re’. This poem makes far more sense when one realises that its title, ‘You’re’, also acts as the first word of each of the statements in the poem. The meaning of the poem also becomes clearer when we realise that ‘You’re’ is a poem about pregnancy and the unborn child Plath is carrying.

You’re

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools’ Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.

IV.

Morning Song’. Although we haven’t arranged this selection of Sylvia Plath’s best poems in any kind of chronological (much less preferential) order, it seems fitting to follow ‘You’re’, a poem about pregnancy, with ‘Morning Song’, a poem about a mother tending to her new-born child. ‘Morning Song’ is about a mother waking in the night to tend to her crying baby, and so doesn’t celebrate the beauty of the sunrise or an aesthetically pleasing landscape as seen at dawn, like some of the poems on this list. Instead, we have Plath’s speaker (based on Plath, herself a mother to a small child when she penned this poem) stumbling out of bed ‘cow-heavy and floral’ in her Victorian nightgown.

Morning Song

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival.  New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety.  We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses.  I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s.  The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars.  And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

V.

‘Poppies in October’. Although this poem gives a nod to Plath’s own suicide attempts (the last of which, of course, tragically, was successful) in its reference to a woman in an ambulance whose heart is likened to the flowering poppies, it is, first and foremost, a poem in celebration of the bright red flowers.

Poppies in October

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.

Nor the woman in the ambulance

Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly –

A gift, a love gift

Utterly unasked for

By a sky

Palely and flamily

Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes

Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

Oh my God, what am I

That these late mouths should cry open

In a forest of frosts, in a dawn of cornflowers.

Sylvia Plath (27 October 1962)

 

VI.

‘Ariel’. One of Sylvia Plath’s most widely discussed poems, ‘Ariel’ describes an early morning horse-ride towards the sun, using imagery that is loaded with significance and suggestiveness. Published in October 1962, just four months before Plath committed suicide, ‘Ariel’ became the title poem in Plath’s posthumous 1965 volume, publication of which was overseen (controversially) by Plath’s widower, Ted Hughes. (We’ve picked some of Ted Hughes’s best poems here.)

Ariel

Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
God’s lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks—
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else
Hauls me through air—
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
White
Godiva, I unpeel—
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child’s cry
Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
VII.

Edge’. This poem, written just six days before Plath committed suicide in February 1963, was probably the last poem she ever wrote. Fittingly – and eerily – it’s about a dead woman, whose body has been ‘perfected’ in death (and, presumably, suicide).

Edge

The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
VIII.

‘Waking in Winter’. This may sound like a poem describing a natural scene, but in fact ‘Waking in Winter’ is about a nuclear winter. Written in 1960 and infused with Cold War and environmentalist elements, ‘Waking in Winter’ offers a bleak vision of a post-nuclear winter where the sky doesn’t just look like tin – the whole atmosphere tastes metallic, too. ‘Waking in Winter’ examines the bleakness of a winter created by man rather than nature – of ‘destructions, annihilations’.

Waking In Winter

I can taste the tin of the sky —- the real tin thing.
Winter dawn is the color of metal,
The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves.
All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations —-
An assembly-line of cut throats, and you and I
Inching off in the gray Chevrolet, drinking the green
Poison of stilled lawns, the little clapboard gravestones,
Noiseless, on rubber wheels, on the way to the sea resort.How the balconies echoed! How the sun lit up
The skulls, the unbuckled bones facing the view!
Space! Space! The bed linen was giving out entirely.
Cot legs melted in terrible attitudes, and the nurses —-
Each nurse patched her soul to a wound and disappeared.
The deathly guests had not been satisfied
With the rooms, or the smiles, or the beautiful rubber plants,
Or the sea, Hushing their peeled sense like Old Mother Morphia.

IX.

‘Crossing the Water’. The water being crossed in this poem is, first and foremost, the boundary between the United States and Canada – but the poem is also suffused with images of darkness and blackness which suggest that another boundary, between life and death, is also being summoned.

Crossing the Water

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.

X.

‘The Moon and the Yew Tree’. In this haunting poem, Plath uses the moon as a symbol for both her melancholy and for her mother, with the yew tree taking on the masculine role of her father. The poem was written in Devon, at a time when Plath was trying to write a poem every day – when she was struggling for inspiration one early morning, Hughes suggested Plath write about the view from their bedroom window, which overlooked a nearby churchyard. The moon could be seen above the yew tree in the churchyard and the rest is (literary) history.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky —
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness –
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.

Puisi Pringadi Abdi Surya | Dari Kucing Hingga ke Parkiran

Seekor Kucing di Kehidupan Lalu

Sambil kupandangi hujan
Dari jendela kamar
Kubayangkan aku seekor kucing
Di kehidupan lalu
Yang mengingat malam
Tanpa lagu pengantar tidur
Menunggu seseorang memungutku
Setelah seseorang membuangku

(2019)


Hanya Nasib

Hanya nasib yang paham
Suara jangkrik pada suatu malam
Bercerita tentang negara
Yang hancur bukan karena perang
Seorang anak perempuan
Memegang sekerat roti basi
Menatap nanar ke arah kamera
Milik wartawan yang bercita-cita
Mendapatkan penghargaan fotografi

Nasib juga yang paham
Keesokan hari, aku tak lagi mampu
Mendengar rintih jangkrik itu
Entah karena ia tertangkap untuk umpan
Atau aku yang keburu dikangeni Tuhan

(2019)


Baca: Puisi Pringadi Abdi Surya yang Lain


Menampal Ban

Aku hanya pergi menampal ban
biar esok kukhidmati lagi perjalanan
Tak perlu kucari sebab semisal
terbentur batu, tertusuk paku
atau memang ban itu letih menemaniku

Kubayangkan udara di dalamnya adalah kita
yang terkurung, bak di sebuah negara
bersesak ria, berteriak ingin segera
saling bercerai-berai, melupakan janji
betapa pernah kita berjuang bersama

Sambil kurenungkan makna setia
Setiap ada yang terluka
Kita akan saling berusaha mengobatinya

(2019)


Parkir Motor

Kita tidak mengenal tukang parkir itu
Tetapi kita tinggalkan motor padanya
Setiap menuju stasiun

Kita tidak tahu namanya, siang nanti
Dia makan apa, atau apakah ia berpikir
Negara baik-baik saja dan sudah baik padanya

Kita titipkan begitu saja, tanpa mengunci
Stang, lalu kita naiki gerbong kereta
Dan berdoa di perjalanan tiada yang merintang

Itulah satu-satunya doa yang kita ucapkan
Dan bersyukur perjalanan ke kantor
Membuat kita masih percaya Tuhan

Lupa atau tak peduli pada hati yang kotor
Dan lebih beriman pada tukang parkir motor

(2019)

 

iKon: Goodbye Road, Indonesian Poetic Translation

Bagaimana caraku mengucapkan selamat tinggal?

Seandainya aku tahu, kita akan segera berpisah
Seharusnya aku tidak terlalu mencintaimu

Karena dada ini telah mati rasa
Hanya kini kita saling menyakiti
Tak ada lagi cinta untukmu dan untukku

Perasaan sentimentil ini tak mau pergi

Apapun yang kau lakukan, kita hanya bisa saling berlalu
Ketertarikanmu telah menjadi obsesi
Selalu memasang rasa curiga, setiap malam dan pagi
Mana kini kepercayaan yang sudah kita bangun bersama
Paling-paling akan kautemukan kepercayaan baru
pada diri orang lain

Aku tidak ingin berkencan hanya untuk berbagi air mata
Aku tidak sudi menciptakan kenangan tentang luka
Sekali lagi, dengan mudahnya, aku terasing dari seseorang
Sungguh, aku tak mencintaimu untuk berpisah denganmu

Kini, harus kuucapkan selamat tinggal
Saat kita berpisah menuju jalanan yang sulit
Setelah kau meninggalkan aku
Kuharap kau akan berjalan di jalanan penuh bunga

Berhati-hatilah pada perasaan sendiri
Lupakanlah segala kenangan tentangku setelah kau pergi

Hiduo dengan kenangan masa lalu
Sungguh membuat diri merasa tak berdaya
Dilupakan dari dari semua kenangan itu
Jauh lebih brutal dan menyakitkan

Aku mencintai hingga mautku
Tetapi pada akhirnya, tak ada maut yang menjemput
Ketika kutarik napas begitu panjang
Udara yang kuembuskan menjadi keluhan

Harusnya, seperti semua orang yang mengalami patah hati
Aku tidak boleh terlalu bersedih
Akan kutemukan seseorang yang kusuka
Tetapi tak mungkin ada yang sepertimu

Selamat tinggal.
Tak boleh ada rasa sesal.

Semudah inikah mengucapkan selamat tinggal?