by S. Swea
The first man said, “There is a river here,”
and tilled the land. Blue veins on the earth,
running blood back to the heart;
settlements swelled where they flowed
and flooded.
Malaysia is named for Sungai Melayu.
We built our nation on water
and every year come monsoon season,
it takes some of it back.
The second man said, “There is a sea here,”
and built a port. Ships cruised freely through our strait,
a constant point of contact
between kingdoms and their conquests.
We were both once.
A country with a shoreline, we were
a crossing point; we were a commercial investment;
we were a colony fought over too many years
before we decided to take ourselves back, too.
The third man said, “There is rain here,”
and cupped his hands. Year-long summers
see us sigh, swelter, sweat in the heat.
See us lounge in mamak stalls, fanning ourselves,
Dreaming of ais kacang and coconut water
and the gift of rain,
sweet and seasonal and always, always
an answer to somebody’s midday prayers.
A cocoon of seasong, a cradle of industry.
We say goodbye to the tide knowing it will come back in.
We wade through paddy fields
and wash our rice in kitchen sinks, a ceaseless
cycle of creation and continuity.
The Southwest Monsoon comes by every June,
and does not leave till early September.
We built a nation on water,
and every year come Merdeka,
it emerges cleansed.