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Silivester Kiik Poem
Don't think; when the wailing valley wind on the ridge drives the shivering leaflets from the trees,
think that all is not over: the rainy season will return
you will see the buds, leaves, and flowers.
Don't think; when the earth grows cold and closed,
and the weary birds above mourn,
don't think that all is over: God still lives
Praise and sunshine will return.
Don't think; when your heart is empty and gloomy,
when your precious hope grows cold and gloomy,
don't think that all is over: God has mercy on you.
He will wipe away every tear.
Don't think; crying for just one night won't last.
God will eventually bring morning.
in the cold buds of every rainy season,
sleep tomorrow's flower buds.
Copyright © Silivester Kiik | Year Posted 2025
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Silivester Kiik Poem
After drizzling in the coral city, the twilight story seemed to disappear with the silent roar
a trembling Timorese cikukua sought refuge
submissive, silent, drenched in the night.
At the edge of a small garden a middle-aged woman stood
with his hands raised towards the pitch of the night
held to greet his lover.
He always waited at the gate of the same old house
the gate that his true love gave him
with parables that revive his tongue
to speak in all languages of love.
I looked at him like the world was blurred crystal wings and fins
and my tears seemed to be covered in crystals, wings and fins
which falls tenth time at every silent banquet.
The shadow of the tree shortened, he gave me drinking water
waiting for the morning to ripen he brought me a glass of water
drinking it so quickly, he went and brought another story.
I imagined my mother's journey, as far as I could
the long morning walk, followed as far as I could
because there is nothing that can be done to do good things
as good as the soles of mother's feet depicted on every walk of life.
Look at the little child in his mother's chest, no one forbids it
no one forbids them from crying
no one forbids them from laughing
your neighbor's love words, he is the only one you have.
When love becomes a question, the message arrives at the beak of the fence and the plaster bird
coloratura is almost unbelievable for flying
just the color we dream of
it took three back officers: two on the pulley and one on the flute
and you think the rain is falling like grace.
Night with thick fog, I want to finish today's improvisation
because all my poems faded in his inner eyes
regret and cold night air
is any tenor that makes sense to sing in a sad song
after the celebration of redemption: I want to sing again,
as deep as the same wound,
as far as the story goes that is not pondered.
Atambua, 25 November 2025
Copyright © Silivester Kiik | Year Posted 2025
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Silivester Kiik Poem
In the palm of a silent city,
Mother Earth's body seems torn by all anger
with sins never read
by a child's prayer in the corner of an old chapel.
Old roots seem isolated in ancestral lands
the smoke of incense and joss sticks wanders without a spell
then all the stiff leaves
move in search of sharp rocks
as a home to sow all the life that brings life.
Mother's tales seem to die in the embrace of time
which no longer reads the light of the sky
unable to count
how many conversations evaporate with the breeze
to surrender to see a truth?
Oh God, my blood bride
how much longer?
my silent city will no longer die before the sun.
Atambua-NTT, Indonesia, December 2, 2025
Copyright © Silivester Kiik | Year Posted 2025
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Silivester Kiik Poem
La luna; come with me on the dry season night
roam freely on the grasslands
in the arms of the wind, my body falls
laughing stars, in silent dreams.
La luna; come with me on the dry season night
the hills shine in your likeness
there our heads rest so gently
and all nature is ours.
La luna; come with me on the dry season night
this is life, sometimes the night is a prayer of silence
sometimes the night is little candles and tears
the wind sighs and the still dark roads mesmerize through the valley.
La luna; come with me on the dry season night
go, as good as your eternal path
and I bless you in all my tears.
Atambua, 27 November 2025
: la luna and all events*
Copyright © Silivester Kiik | Year Posted 2025
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Silivester Kiik Poem
When dusk screams in the fury of the night
At the city edge, I greet its tragic departure
Written in a trust to be contemplated with its pampering hue
But darkness dominates the peace of feeling
Until it plunges into the sadness of the night birds' whistles
This body is increasingly swayed by the ambition of the emptiness of space
Pressing the soul to focus more on reflecting it with seduction
While whispering longing to the sharp rocks
But no beautiful smile greets it sincerely
Only the angry waving of the bushes in their own hustle and bustle
I want to return to the embrace of romantic solitude
Carrying a million loves in the purity of my heart
Carving them on plain, colored sheets
Keeping them with a string of prayers to God
To be remembered while the breath of life still lingers
Atambua-NTT, December 1, 2025
Copyright © Silivester Kiik | Year Posted 2025
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Silivester Kiik Poem
In Lopo, we chase the dawn
sincerely praying
to the fragrance of corn and the prayers of mother earth
just as every dewdrop glistening on the shoulders of the weeds
is the praise of the farmers' children
slowly descending into the palms of our ancestors
and surrendering to God.
We run freely in the fields
herding the wind and the birdsong
with a joyful dance
while whispering to the soil
our sweat that falls tirelessly is a prayer that takes root.
And when dusk calls us home,
mother has lit a fire in the stove
and father is holding a hoe
because we know that in every yellowing ear of corn
is light born from the soil
and we give thanks with tears
oh God: the great giver.
Atambua – NTT, August 2, 2026
Description: Lopo refers to a traditional house and barn typical of the ethnic groups in East Nusa Tenggara, particularly the Timorese (Dawan/Atoin Meto) and the Abui people in Alor. This building is shaped like a giant mushroom with an open thatched roof without walls and stands on wooden pillars.
Copyright © Silivester Kiik | Year Posted 2026
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Silivester Kiik Poem
Every mother's prayer calls home
in this hut
morning smoke billows upwards
holes in the door and roof gasp
a mother's tear-streaked face
over the burning coals
empty clay pot
who will provide enough food
today?
Ahead, the wet dust on the paths
it's hard to tell whether it was last night's rain
or a drop of blood
but the remnants of water on the road
and the remnants of light in the vision
seep into the womb
becoming pus and blood.
Children fall asleep listening to stories
now they rub their eyes
to ponder
that there is no more fairyland
no wind
to carry them away
and if they try to stand
their heads hit the black sky
their eyes burn
their hands burn
their stomachs burn
are they roasting themselves?
A voice rises up
is it from the sea?
from the valley?
from the mountains?
from the storm?
from the wailing of many voices?
it continued to soar into the sky,
but in the trees,
the branches
and leaves remained motionless.
Smoke swirled like any other day,
only the mother slowly lifted her face,
tears streaming for a moment,
and the children peeked out again
—and again.
Atambua—Indonesia, July 9, 2026
Copyright © Silivester Kiik | Year Posted 2026
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Silivester Kiik Poem
While releasing the twilight to his bed
from a silent mountain
the leaves of the big trees are falling
the birds wander aimlessly
embrace the clouds as home
floating without wings.
The rain fell weeping on the steadfast corals
watched a stallion busy training
with a swirl of power in his eyes
like tendrils spreading the colors of rain
on his back which was soaked and flowing profusely
without anyone knowing
mama's tears drowned with the rain debris
weaving the history of the wounds of the earth's body
because there is no better season to love him.
When the body is burned by every word that hurts
with hot breath meeting eyes
the source of life opens its lips and flows
all the strands that are shattered
at every moment that greets and spins your shadow
on the circle of the breath of love itself.
With every downpour that cuts off your head and throws it to the ground, as a sign that the eye of life is shrinking back to a small garden—its origin.
To the grove that calls me to understand that every solitude i have ever known is a silence spewed by birds and trimmed lamp wicks—casting shadows on the bare walls and telling stories flavored with the milk of my ancestors, but like an unblown bud that will never hear or know such stories.
Each seed—centuries ago—was a living heart that grew in the black soil of her body and was forgotten among the tense bodies.
As the sun set, they rumbled like snails opening their mouths and spoke of her body's suffering, neighing with their endless pain.
And together we sipped palm wine from different coconut shells, savoring each separate memory, with the ash falling from the sky, entangling her body with roots that gripped the soil tightly.
On this land—I will step again toward rebirth, with the prophecies of the gods touching every probing finger and walking the same path, with my body lying on the grassy shoulder like a broken noose.
Oh; The flowers of the night awake
like eyes without lids
a child's laughter stutters weakly
under the whip of the rainy season
the fire of the eyes dims and goes out
and under the sun that every day
bathes in blood and rises in an empty house
is a sign that—we are not angels.
Atambua-NTT, December 3, 2025
Copyright © Silivester Kiik | Year Posted 2025
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Silivester Kiik Poem
Old debris still stands alone on the shore,
shivering on the sand motionless,
the roar of the waves lifts it,
its mouth open without a message.
The night wind touches it with its hand,
bringing out stains on it,
while calling out the signal of death,
in the dunes everything comes to an end.
The feathers of shot seagulls are still neatly stored,
bottles still roll silently over their bodies,
fish are found beginning to swell,
waiting their turn to disappear.
Hour after hour,
day after day,
the muddy ground slides away,
the stunted trees slumber under the seduction of sinful hands.
The heart of the intelligent being still acts like a factory chimney,
whose right it is to gaze upon all creation,
even he himself does not know,
the hustle and bustle of his footsteps is but an emptiness.
Atambua-NTT, Indonesia, December 2, 2025
Copyright © Silivester Kiik | Year Posted 2025
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Silivester Kiik Poem
The street was still quiet, where footsteps sounded strange
and the lush, undisturbed grass
of the old hut, still pitch-black
long-abandoned.
The walls shone brightly in the moonlight
still, still and straight.
In the eyes that no longer saw the light,
a mother could be heard crying blindly.
The church bells could be heard faintly in the distance
far above the city, the melody of the kyrie eleison still sung
and melting softly, as all was silent everywhere.
Atambua, November 28, 2025
Copyright © Silivester Kiik | Year Posted 2025
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