My soul is dyed in patterns of the past,
A batik thread through centuries of flame.
Each motif speaks of empires built to last,
Yet whispers loss beneath the woven name.

The wax resists the dye, like truth resists
The empire’s ink upon the scholar’s scroll.
Yet in each fold, a sacred myth persists—
A lotus blooming from the fractured whole.

O heritage, not relic but revolt,
You dance in cloth, in shadow, and in song.
Your silence is a thunderbolt, a jolt
That wakes the dead and rights the ancient wrong.

So let me wear you—not as pride or chain,
But as a map where memory meets the rain.

Jakarta November 3, 2025