Ode untuk yang Gugur dan Terluka

 

A protester holding the Indonesian flag faces off against rows of riot police with shields during a street clash in Jakarta. Water splashes and debris scatter as tension escalates between the lone protester and the heavily armored officers.

Dari gas air mata Jakarta hingga api di Makassar,
negeri ini bergetar, menanggung luka yang besar.
Suara rakyat bangkit, meski tanpa nama,
jerit mereka tetap nyata.

Agustus memanggul duka di punggungnya yang rapuh,
mimpi diinjak, kebenaran dikubur kelam dan lusuh.
Affan Kurniawan, dua puluh satu tahun,
pengemudi harapan, kini jadi korban.


Protesters, many young and wearing hoodies or masks, clash with riot police in Jakarta. The demonstrators wield bamboo sticks and throw objects, while heavily armored police crouch in formation behind shields marked “POLISI.”

Umar Amarudin berjuang, luka masih membekas di tubuhnya,
sementara kuasa berpesta di gedung dingin.
Empat nyawa terkunci dalam kobaran api,
Makassar menangis, seluruh negeri ikut merintih.

Namun dari abu dan air mata rakyat berdiri,

Indonesia akan bangkit, kebenaran takkan mati.


Dengarlah, tikus-tikus busuk yang sedang sibuk bersembunyi: kami tidak akan diam.

Darah ada di tanganmu, kebenaran akan hidup lebih lama darimu.


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Ode to the Fallen and the Wounded 
A protester holding the Indonesian flag faces off against rows of riot police with shields during a street clash in Jakarta. Water splashes and debris scatter as tension escalates between the lone protester and the heavily armored officers.


From Jakarta’s tear gas to Makassar’s flames,

the nation trembles, bearing wounds too great.

Voices rise, nameless but unbroken,

every cry is still real.


August carries sorrow on its fragile back,

dreams trampled, truth buried in the dark.

Affan Kurniawan—only twenty-one,

a rider of hope, now taken.


Umar Amarudin fights on, his body marked by pain,
while the powerful feast inside their cold halls.
Four souls trapped within burning walls,
Makassar weeps, and the whole country mourns.

Yet even in ashes, the people still sing:
Indonesia will rise, for truth never dies.

Hear this, you rotten rats hiding in your holes: we will not be silent.
The blood is on your hands, and truth will outlive you.


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