Wounds of the Sundanese Land

Wounds of the Sundanese Land

 By Asep Rohmandar.                                                                                                               In valleys once dressed in green,
the kacapi’s gentle strings now falter,
the ripples of Ci Tarum whisper stories
of promises that fell before the harvest came.

In the village hall,
the seats no longer belong to the people—
filled instead with faces bound by feast and bargain,
cartels sow rice in fields of dust,
harvesting the grain before the seed has woken.

Oligarchs weave invisible nets,
catching the dreams of village children,
trading their tomorrows for crumpled envelopes,
whose stench cuts deeper than burning incense.

In coffee stalls, elders speak in hushed tones,
of lands sold without a word,
of roads built for those who never walk them,
of leaders who forgot they were servants.

These wounds draw no blood,
yet they flow through the veins of history,
seen in the dimming eyes of the old,
and in the chests of youth—
angry, yet silenced.

O, Sundanese land,
you are not merely soil and tongue,
you are dignity—
never meant to be traded for a seat at a table
or a signature upon the paper of betrayal.

One day,
the sugar palm leaves will sway freely again,
and the kacapi will sing once more,
when the people hold the reins,
and these wounds will heal—
not because we forget,
but because we choose to rise.

Bandung City, 12 August 2025