Telegrams || Valencia Willianto

by Valencia Willianto

TW: Death.

One day I will die 

and I will sing every song 

the bush hides; blue, white, and purple 

birds will fly out. The fire cracklings—you barely see 

but hear the sound. A cello play 

by a half naked girl. Others hold 

each others’ hand on an effortless spin. 

A kid stretches his legs to the south, 

but his moon-shaped-eyes 

on an old man smiling to his wife on a garden bench, 

and one stroke of grey hair means to breathe.

I will send the three year old baby laughing 

to every breath of air, and you can now live 

eyes closed and fly. Darling, nothing matters more 

like holding a hand, and waves are ripples that’s never 

goodbye. I love you. Don’t grieve for me 

down the yards. The sun is beginning to set 

itself like morning light. Quiet birds are in circled flight. 

I’m not there for you to weep, but heaven is for everyone 

to live. The world’s a little green and blue, 

but some hearts like yours 

can be some others; 

unfolding telegrams that needs to be unfolded. 

A home for everyone that sits in silence 

and corners. Close your eyes.

But make sure to open them,

right after the closing door.

Image Credit: ©Pinterest


VALENCIA WILIANTO is a Poet and a B.Sc. Psychology graduate. Her work can also be found in Millennial Pulp Literary Magazine, Amphora Magazine, Roi Fainéant Press, among other publications. Her Poetry newsletter can be found at You can also find her on social media, @PoetryOfHvaw. 


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