ABOUT THAT MAN KILLED SOMETIME AROUND ELECTION DAY Poem by Goenawan Mohamad

"God, give me Your vote."

The silence was the silence that follows a dog's howl when the night watchman stumbled into the corpse by the dike. Face down, as if seeking the fragrance and warmth of paddy. But the fetid smell and the cold of the man's cheeks were contorted by the moonlight. Then came the others—flashlights, torches and fireflies—but no one recognized him. He's not one of us, the watchman said.

"God, give me Your vote."

Beneath the kerosene lantern in the village chief's office they found the gaping wounds. Bustling shadows; leftover whispers on the veranda. The man had no identity card. No name. No party affiliation. No emblem. He had no one to cry for him because we couldn't. Whatever could his religion be?

"Great Mapmaker, where is my homeland?"

The day after the next they read about it in the city paper, on the front page. Someone cried without knowing why. Someone did not cry and did not know why. A worn out child fashioned a hat from the morning paper that was later blown away by the wind. Look up! To those kites in the air, in pairs, leaning on the breeze. Later the twilight birds perched on the wires as the cranes sailed towards day's end, crossing the wasteland and those long streaks of color, like fading smoke.

"God, give me Your vote."