I'm a foreigner at the crossroads what you see from a distance wave hands say hello to you. I've been confused ever since stand alone in the crowd, no one sees me except for a pair of eyes that is lodged in people's heads which I never knew before; and the clouds turn blue but don't hurt flowing right over the head then the birds rise expel the wind who had tossed my long hair. I just stare at them, hope they don't look at me. However, the world suddenly stopped. And my world seems to have a limit to transcend isolation. I'm a foreigner at the crossroads, which has been left behind by old memories, and when the new comrades have become adept at reading signs, and therefore we have bonded like a relationship that we are not really aware of. I'm a foreigner at the crossroads, greet you as a stranger too, but now everyone is busy making their own festival, and don't ask, I make a festival for whom, except for the day when I'm not known anymore.
Indonesia, 30th November 2021 Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Festival time - A favorite time of year When Mothers and Fathers sing the their children as gifts Dance in the love of Old Grandpa Wally Even when he can't find his socks, or sits on the dog Aunt Dorcas bought the tickets to the Fantasy Festival So all the good little Girls and Boyos can play!
Open your arms To the Fountain of Clowns Open your family To the Fountain of Clowns Open your Daddy To the Fountain of Clowns Open your Mommy To the Fountain of Clowns
Will you go with me to ride the Spring Mares? Or see the sights at the Showy-Magic Tent? Maybe learn what the Pizzazz Wizard sees for our Tomorrows? Maybe a kiss at the Promisatorium All of your Sister's dreams can die and be born again If your tired, rest your head on Brother's lap and take a drink
Open your eyes To the Fountain of Clowns Open your heart To the Fountain of Clowns Open your insides To the Fountain of Clowns Open your mouth To the Fountain of Clowns
Laughing and Crying are the flavors of love The scars on your heart will open its flowers Look deep in the eyes of the children who surround you Ask them for love with your arms and your tears The sun in the sky was meant for your Heart Maybe the Queen of Summer will never end
Open your past To the Fountain of Clowns Open your future To the Fountain of Clowns Open your body To the Fountain of Clowns Open your heart To the Fountain of Clowns
Take a walk with me to the festival grounds - Let us see what magic we can make!
Steinbeck’s restless ghost whispers to me as I tiptoe along a stone seawall. He steers me away from the bay back to the old sandstone churches built by native hands,
back to music festivals and artisan fairs full of mild, white cheeses and would-be novelists arguing about Henry Miller’s tropics.
But I’ve grown tired of his whispering and no longer wish to dream of these things. I would rather descend into a watery haven. I will wave goodbye to John and I will run down sandy paths that lead to the sea.
I wade into the depths and sink into a canyon where kelp shivers in underwater breezes, and the only stars I see will be suction-cupped to the rocks below.