Call me melancholy, he said.
A trumpet aimed at a forty watt bulb.
A door, dry as leaves, slammed by the night.
Call me melancholy, he said.
Soul in the gloom of the room, singed by fireflies
of cigarettes chasing each other’s tail.
Call me melancholy, he said.
His faces plastered on a poster, his smile
the momentary tremble of wall paper
and his steps, his life, a heart
refrigerated.
Call me.
But I do not know you, I said to him.
He smiled, black man. And squirmed, a black man.
Look at my lungs, he said. An object from
outer space
sticky with pus.
Call me melancholy, he said again, and sang:
I hate to see…
1991
Translated by Toenggoel P. Siagian
