'It finster sjocht dy oan, it lân nimt dy op...'

De aanspreker


foto Kees Middendorp


IT LET


Under it let oer de lege polders
ljepte út de slinken fan ieuwen
in tsjuster dat in âld begjinnen ynhie.

Fersille tusken reidkraach en kopwylch
lei, oan grús trape, in televyzje,
de diggels spegelen in stikken hielal.

Ik tocht oan Ouwens, fisken en de lytse,
tinne hosty’s fan in ienris wie der…

O, misdracht fan hegere kommuny!

Doe begûn it stadichwei te snijen, froast
sloech ûnder de rop fan de stienûle
in swarte flier yn dampe fierten.

Lyts behyplik wek waard my de mûle
it ferwoedene besykjen en hâld
tusken himel en ierde it wurd iepen.


THE TOLLING

As the bell tolls over the empty polder
a darkness that holds an old beginning
leaps from the channels of centuries.

Lost between the reeds and willows,
the pieces of a shattered television,
shards reflecting a broken universe.

I think of Ouwens, lambs and the small,
thin hosts in a once that was… Oh,
the abortion of holy communion!

Then a slow snow begins to fall,
the cold lays a black floor in the misty
distance and the little owl calls.

My mouth turns into a small dangerous
hole in the ice, a desperate attempt,
holding the word open to the sky.

.
Translation David Colmer