‘Driuw sis ik, driuw...’

It Fear




Der skitterje lampen oare kant de mar,
in disel stampt de ronkjende weagen troch.

Yn de Wyldeman farre de ferhalen
oer allesfersizzende kusten, stêden en fierten.

In flecht of in ferlangen, der bleau
in einleaze trek en helje yn it spoar fan

elkenien dy’t ȏfstiek en oerseesk gong
pleatslike ûntiid nei in heldere útlanske moarntiid.

It wie in skriuwen út De Sont, Milton of Boston
dat libben op smaak en stoom brocht,

it fear ta in ljocht skommeljende nacht makke,
wylst tiid de passazjier de wittenskip die:

Alles seit no goedei, lykas alles tagelyk ek bliuwt,
tsjuster lyk de wjittering fan Heraklitus.

.

THE FERRY

Across the lake the lights are shining
while the diesel thumps through the droning waves.

In De Wyldeman stories set sail for distant coasts
and cities of boundless promise, vistas.

Flight or pursuit of desire, it was an endless trek
in the tracks of everyone who’d ever left

for overseas to change our local time’s
unholy hour into a bright and foreign morning.

It was the letters from Milton, Boston or Øresund
that added spice and pace to life,

turning the ferry into a gently rocking night,
while time passed knowledge to its passengers:

Everything is saying goodbye, but also stays,
as dark as the rivers of Heraclitus.

.

Translation David Colmer