This is my for sister who requested the prose … wrote it in 1999 in Jakarta. (Maybe I should return to writing poems again …).


There is something primitive in hearing thunders rustling the sky – the same sound that our forefathers heard and sent them scurrying to the safety of broad-leaved banana trees. The sound that gives a signal that a rain may be coming very soon, but then again, it may just be that the angels are rearranging the tables for their nightly cup of tea.

As the thunders continue to rustle outside, I feel a oneness with people all over this old world. The same sound, without any amplifying or recording, has been played for thousands of years. It was present when God separated the land and the sea, it was also there when Noah looked up to the sky and saw the dark clouds fast approaching. The same sound, the same symphony has been played many a time ever since, with neverending interpretations.

Like the sound of drums, playing to ancient patterns, they continue to rustle the evening sky – alighting clouds and giving rhythms to the humid evening. The thunders are easing tonight, maybe it won’t rain after all – but then again, the sound has done enough to awaken the romance, the primitiveness, and the memories of thunders, in different settings,and places, to the same sound of thunderrustles.

© Arry Tanusondjaja, 1999

Published by fuzz

I've finally relented to the lures of blogging - and for those who care, well, I'm a self-confessed geek who's a wanderer at heart, who thinks and analyses too much, and who's trying hard to hold on to his 7-year old inner persona.

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