Rahayu,The Forgotten Flower

This presence came to me after I finished meditating. The residual energy left behind was filled with deep sorrow—an overwhelming sadness. And when I opened communication, that was when she began to tell her story.

And this is her story…

(A short story series about an entity—a residual memory left behind)

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"Rahayu, the Forgotten Flower"

I did not call for her, yet she came,

woven from memory, sorrow, and time.

She stood before me, silent yet pleading,

her story heavy in the air between us.

"Tell them I was here," she whispered,

"Let them know I lived, before I was lost."

Once, in a village kissed by the golden sun,

where rice fields stretched like endless dreams,

there was a girl named Rahayu—

a name that meant peace, though peace never found her.

Her beauty was like the evening rain,

soft, warm, and untouched by the world.

Her long black hair, like flowing silk,

her skin, bronzed by the sun’s embrace,

her figure, a whisper of youth and grace.

But beauty is a curse in the hands of greed.

Hunger gnawed at her family’s door,

six little mouths crying for more.

And so, her father, desperate and weak,

sold her to a man in power’s keep.

Not for hatred, nor for spite,

but for coin, for survival, for the desperate night.

A Dutch landlord with eyes so cruel,

who saw her as a gem to rule.

Not a soul, not a dream,

just another piece for his grand regime.

She was dressed in silks, adorned in gold,

but chains are chains, no matter how they hold.

The wife watched with a burning glare,

poisoned by jealousy, laced with despair.

And so, they came—her hands bound tight,

dragged through halls without the right to fight.

The wife’s whisper slithered cold,

"Let her learn, let her break, let her fold."

Men, faceless, nameless in the dark,

tore apart what was once whole,

stripped her soul, crushed her spark,

until pain became her only role.

Rahayu bled beneath the moon,

her cries swallowed by the empty room.

She fought, she wept, she begged the stars,

but mercy was a world too far.

By morning, silence was all she wore,

a body lifeless on the wooden floor.

Her name, once sung in laughter bright,

was now just echoes lost in night.

"Tell them I was here," she whispered again,

"Not just as sorrow, not just as pain.

But as a girl who once had dreams,

before the world tore them at the seams."

And so I write, beneath the same sky,

where she once danced, where she once cried.

Rahayu, the girl the world betrayed,

now lives again, in words that stay.

@poembyselly

As I shared the residual memory of Rahayu, I felt my chest tighten, and tears welled in my eyes. This story is heartbreaking—a tale of colonial oppression that cuts deep into my heart.

Your story has been told, Rahayu. My promise is fulfilled. Rest in peace, and walk into the light.