We are like partners in the ronggeng,
Approaching nearer, nearer, nearer;
But just when one would think we’d meet at last,
We turn away, reverse our steps, withdraw.
And like the ronggeng too, my life seems now,
With steps mechanical, repeated, meaningless;
Arms swinging back and forth, expressing nothing,
Feet pacing up and down the floor, going nowhere.
I am tired of going through these ronggeng motions,
Long to break this impasse of reserve;
If only at one point our hands would clasp,
What rich variety of movement and gesture could be ours.
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