Dengar ratap rintih gitar itu
mulai mengiang.
Gelas-gelas fajar pecah
terhempas terbanting.
Ratap rintih gitar itu
terdengar lagi.
Membisukannya?
Ah, tak ada guna.
Dia merintih: menyanyi satu lagu
seperti rintih arus
seperti rintih angin
melintas di padang salju.
Mustahil saja,
membekap mulutnya.
Dia merintih untuk
dia yang jauh di sana.
Padang pasir di selatan kepanasan,
merindukan putih bunga camellia.
Rintih anak panah lepas tanpa sasaran
malam tanpa pagi
dan burung pertama yang mati
di secabang pohon.
Oh, gitar!
Hati yang terbantai sampai mati
ditebas lima mata pedang.
Oldman with Guitar, PICASSO
The Guitar
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords
