OLD JAVA

There was once a time of merchant ships and Sufi saints, of tobacco and spices and prayer beads clacking in the night, of jasmine buds and handmade cloth, of torches flickering and puppet shadows dancing on palace screens, of Javan tigers and water buffalo, of kapok trees and cajeput oil, of fiery mountains and forest spirits and ritual. 
And what of now? Selfie sticks, celebrity clerics, palm oil giants. Something catches in my throat, and I don’t know whether it’s sadness or contempt. I close my eyes and resume the fantasy.