The headlines whisper secrets I can't grasp,
ink smudged on fingertips,
stories unfold like leaves falling,
beneath the ketapang's shade,
searching for truth in printed lines.
I hear my voice, a murmur,
asking questions that linger,
words scatter like seeds,
on the page, seeking roots,
among columns of fleeting promises.
The world spins beyond the window,
a dance of shadows and light,
as if the paper holds the universe,
in its crinkled folds,
the morning's breath on newsprint.
Pondering the weight of these stories,
I realize not all vows hold,
like leaves that drift away,
from the branches they once knew,
some promises are meant to be broken.