For
Gert B.
It is Easter Monday.
The magnolia flowers.
The garden wall seems
to glow gently.
Just for a moment I
sense the winter
when I take the garden
chairs out of the cellar.
What is in the bud,
wants to open
before nightfall. As in
a race
green holds the first
place.
Nothing is hesitating.
The exception is my
hand that touches the tree-bark.
The branch that it
breaks, contains no sap.
It is clear: the pear
tree is dead
and from what I have
heard this morning, so are you.
|
The
synagogue on the Koornmarkt
I
have come to Delft, not for its blue
or
its tower. Because only what was lost,
has
the right of existence.
Ornament
that lives in a pencil sketch.
Light
spots on the eastern wall.
Tolerance
made evident from a speech
Much
was devoted to what had disappeared. A collection.
The
words of a poet from The Hague. Lotteries
and
the whole life of an unmarried engineer.
The
specification provided room for eighty Jews.
In
fear they threw themselves down.
The
occupiers registered
a
hundred and thirty eight.
Twelve
returned.
Oh
Eternal one, I love the throne of Your house that
turned
into a storage place for rusting barrels.
|
Original titles: La gare forestière, Voor Gerd B. and De synagoge aan de Koornmarkt - From: De tweede ronde, Tijdschrift voor literatuur, Herfst 1989 - Vlaams nummer - Uitgeverij Bert Bakker BV, Amsterdam.
|
No comments:
Post a Comment