God is dead.
God remains dead.
And we have killed him.

How shall we comfort ourselves,
the murderers of all murderers?

What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned
has bled to death under our knives:
who will wipe this blood off us?
what water is there for us to clean ourselves?
what festivals of atonement.
what sacred games shall we have to invent?

Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us?

Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?

– Friedrich Nietzsche


No one understands what I feel.
Not even myself.

Who is my friend?
The one you once adore?

Many times I question about myself.
Why am I born in the world
if people don’t want me to be here.
Isn’t it better to be no more?

But no, I can’t die yet.
My future cat needs to be fed.
If not me, who will?

So Here I am.

– Bandung, 24 September 2016

I know my soul hath power to know all things
Yet is she blind and ignorant in all:I know I’m one of Nature’s little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall

I know my life’s a pain, and but a span;
I know my sense is mock’d in ev’ry thing:
And to conclude, I know myself a man
Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing

– John Davies, 1569 – 1626 — …Masterpieces of Religious Verses, J.D. Morrison
Harper & Brothers Publisher, New York and London

In childhood’s pride I said to Thee:
‘O Thou, who mad’st me of Thy breath,
Speak, Master, and reveal to me
Thine inmost laws of life and death.

‘Give me to drink each joy and pain
Which Thine eternal hand can mete,
For my insatiate soul would drain
Earth’s utmost bitter, utmost sweet.

‘Spare me no bliss, no pang of strife,
Withhold no gift or grief I crave,
The intricate lore of love and life
And mystic knowledge of the grave.’

Lord, Thou didst answer stern and low:
‘Child, I will hearken to thy prayer,
And thy unconquered soul shall know
All passionate rapture and despair.

‘Thou shalt drink deep of joy and fame,
And love shall burn thee like a fire,
And pain shall cleanse thee like a flame,
To purge the dross from thy desire.

‘So shall thy chastened spirit yearn
To seek from its blind prayer release,
And spent and pardoned, sue to learn
The simple secret of My peace.

‘I, bending from my sevenfold height,
Will teach thee of My quickening grace,
Life is a prism of My light,
And Death the shadow of My face.’

– Sarojini Naidu, 1879 — …Masterpieces of Religious Verses, J.D. Morrison
Harper & Brothers Publisher, New York and London

You laid aside Your majesty,
gave up everything for me.
Suffered at the hands of those
You had created.

You took away my guilt and shame,
When You died and rose again.
Now today You reign,
And heaven and earth exalt You.

I really want to worship You my Lord,
You have won my heart and I am Yours.
Forever and ever, I will love You.
You are the only one who died for me,
Gave Your life to set me free.
So I lift my voice to You in adoration.

– Noel Richards (piano by Keith Routledge)


I saw a white tiger laying on the street of Braga;
May be it’s just a dream;
He saw through my eyes, through the flesh;
Through my heart, through my soul.

I saw the tiger drank water from Cikapundung river;
May be it’s just a dream;
He chased over flying ducks with green-necks nearby;
Happily swimming, catching gurami, like a cat.

I saw the tiger traveled from Bypass to Dago;
May be it’s just a dream;
It took him less than forty five minutes long;
Like a wind he ran, arrived on time.

I saw the white tiger chilled on Tegallega Park;
May be it’s just a dream;
It shivered, probably because of the cold – who knows?
Or because of butterflies perched on his nose?

I saw the tiger playing hide and seek with Garuda;
May be it’s just a dream;
Not only great birds, crocodiles, whales, and sheeps;
They were looking for nice food here, it seems.

I saw the white tiger staying under bushes of Bougenville;
He crossed his legs and stayed there idly, looking at the mountain;
He began to close his bright blue eyes and slept soundly.
Then I know it is I who dream of him.

— Bandung, 2014
A little dream for Parahyangan

To a young physician, with Dore’s picture of Christ healing the sick

So stood of old the holy Christ
Amidst the suffering throng;With whom His lightest touch sufficed
To make the weakest strong.

That healing gift He lends to them
Who use it in His name;
The power that filled His garment’s hem
Is evermore the same.

For lo! in human hearts unseen
The Healer dwelleth still,
And they who make His temples clean,
The best subserve His will.

The holiest task by Heaven decreed,
And errand all divine,
The burden of our common need
To render less is thine.

The paths of pain are thine. Go forth
With patience, trust, and hope;The sufferings of a sin-sick earth
Shall give thee ample scope.

Beside the unveiled mysteriesOf life and death go stand,
With guarded lips and reverent eyes
And pure of heart and hand.

So shalt thou be with power endued
From Him who went about
The Syrian hillsides doing good,And casting demons out.

That Good Physician liveth yet
Thy friend and guide to be;
The Healer by Gennesaret
Shall walk the rounds with thee.

– John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807-1892 — …Masterpieces of Religious Verses, J.D. Morrison
Harper & Brothers Publisher, New York and London