Not a Gravestone, Not a Sullen Mountain

yusu achmad

Why does my silence not turn rigid, stone-like?
Not the grave’s loyal mourner, endlessly weeping,
Nor a cold epitaph shivering
as it guards the lifeless—
My silence flows, though it goes unseen.
It begins by weaving meaning,
framed in wisdom, crowned with patience.
I withdraw not in defeat,
but for a love too vast for mere words.

I hold my fire—for kin,
heirs of knowledge and sacred path,
in the name of devotion,
in the name of time aging
alongside reverence.
Then my silence stirs, becoming a mountain:
patient—yet not incapable of eruption.
Who said a summit cannot speak?
When the time arrives,
it splits the sky with a thunder born of soul.

From its ruins, life returns again:
grass of kindness, tree of values,
flowers of reverent conduct
for those who read with their hearts.
My silence is no simple muteness—
it learns from the sky and the educator’s spirit:
radiating, never reprimanding.

I know fruit borne of pain
can taste bitter in one’s own mouth—
but let it sweeten tomorrow
for those who learn to read silence
not as the tombstone of isolation,
nor the mountain
merely lost in thought on the horizon.

Surabaya, 17 June 2025