Poem
Michael Palmer
We must count in Babylon
We moeten tellen in Babylon
We moeten tellen in Babylon.Zeker in Babylon moeten we tellen,
de dagen en de doden tellen,
de vertrekken van het paleis,
zijn stenen, zijn trappen, zijn
flakkerende lampen, moeten we
de wolken tellen, de blaadjes van de bloemen,
de uren, we moeten de uren tellen
terwijl ze verstrijken
zo langzaam voor de jonge,
zo snel voor de verdorde
heersers van deze plek,
driftige slachters van de rede
die verborgen is. Zeker
in Babylon moeten we tellen,
de door slaven onderhouden tuinen
en opgetrokken torens in deze
spoedig in stof opgaande stad,
de dagen en de doden tellen.
Moeten we het stof tellen?
© Vertaling: 2010, Tom Van de Voorde
We must count in Babylon.
Surely in Babylon we must count,
count the days and the dead,
the chambers of the palace,
its stones, its steps, its
flaring lamps, must count
the clouds, the petals of the flowers,
the hours, we must count the hours
as they pass
so slowly for the young,
so swiftly for the withered
masters of this place,
ardent assassins of speech
hidden away. Surely
in Babylon we must count
the gardens tended, the towers raised
by slaves in this city
soon to be dust, count
the days and the dead.
Must we count the dust?
Surely in Babylon we must count,
count the days and the dead,
the chambers of the palace,
its stones, its steps, its
flaring lamps, must count
the clouds, the petals of the flowers,
the hours, we must count the hours
as they pass
so slowly for the young,
so swiftly for the withered
masters of this place,
ardent assassins of speech
hidden away. Surely
in Babylon we must count
the gardens tended, the towers raised
by slaves in this city
soon to be dust, count
the days and the dead.
Must we count the dust?
© 2010, Michael Palmer
From: Thread
Publisher: New Directions, New York
From: Thread
Publisher: New Directions, New York
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Poems of Michael Palmer
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We must count in Babylon
We must count in Babylon.Surely in Babylon we must count,
count the days and the dead,
the chambers of the palace,
its stones, its steps, its
flaring lamps, must count
the clouds, the petals of the flowers,
the hours, we must count the hours
as they pass
so slowly for the young,
so swiftly for the withered
masters of this place,
ardent assassins of speech
hidden away. Surely
in Babylon we must count
the gardens tended, the towers raised
by slaves in this city
soon to be dust, count
the days and the dead.
Must we count the dust?
From: Thread
We must count in Babylon
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