Padi Nyawa Urang
i.
golden—brown—gently—bowing
rustling—reaching—rice
lets wind run through their calm.
stroke the seeds and sow the soil,
bury
your
qualms,
ancients reborn in your palms.
—kukuruyuk!
rooster breaks the calm.
mothers and daughters in a line
straight from the leuit
to the lesung: hair tied back,
yellow-brown patterns on their samping waist-wrapped,
“treat rice with grace as you would a guest.”
they
pound
grind
smooth
the grains out of their pods, crinkling soft,
spilling clattering down. tomorrow,
when morning comes,
steam will rise in puffs of white
from the boboko, and you will smell
the gentle scent. upon your lips, a cradle.
ii.
golden—rays—brightly—glowing
shining—sheen of—sun
sending beaming lights across
rows of paddy fields
mind
your
step.
tanned skin bowed over endless green.
deft hands do what the blood in their veins
has known for centuries.
hoeing, planting, aren’t these a kind of prayer?
when midday comes,
crescendo of sun,
run back home: don’t stay outdoors for tangari.
“every mortal being must share its time with the immortals.”
iii.
golden—phrases—etched—known
old—unquestioned—true
we tread this land
like our ancestors before us,
wrinkled arms
hold
cherish
guide
dimpled, mud-streaked children
across green and brown and gray.
they sing and whisper,
“padi itu nyawa urang”: “rice is our lifeblood.”
when nighttime comes,
see the tungku light up, beads of fire
swirling, stretching, stroking warmth.
see the houses and their bamboo walls, ijuk roofs.
see the slow crawl of moonlight,
cloaked above gold-soaked grains,
see them glimmer in silent sacredness.
