Poem
Alfred Schaffer
DAY(DREAM) # 3
The nights are the worst.In the distance the last farms
but nothing is recognizable anymore, not even my own voice.
Nothing, nothing makes sense anymore –
things suddenly seems dangerously close and recorded.
The water in the ditches, the wind through the knee-high grass
the porous earth and that horse over there
I think it’s a horse.
I do up my laces to buy time.
In my rucksack: water, food, dry clothes
a handful of bullets my mobile still has a signal.
I barely reflect, barely breathe.
As though I were dead but I’m bursting with life.
If I’m thirsty, I drink.
If I’m tired, I sing a song
my mother always used to sing to me.
From above this might look like running away
but everything is dark from above.
A few kilometres at the most, I guess
then the sun will come up
gleaming, clear light all around.
© Translation: 2014, Michele Hutchison
DAG(DROOM) # 3
DAG(DROOM) # 3
De nachten zijn het ergst.Verderop de laatste boerderijen
maar alles is al onherkenbaar, zelfs mijn eigen stem.
Niets, er klopt helemaal niets meer van –
wat bestaat lijkt plotseling gevaarlijk dichtbij en gedocumenteerd.
Het water in de slootjes, de wind door het kniehoge gras
de zuigende aarde en dat paard daar
volgens mij is dat een paard.
Om tijd te winnen strik ik mijn veters.
In mijn rugzak water, voedsel, droge kleren
een handvol losse kogels mijn mobieltje heeft gewoon bereik.
Nauwelijks denk ik na, nauwelijks haal ik adem.
Net of ik dood ben maar ik ben springlevend.
Heb ik dorst dan drink ik.
Ben ik moe dan zing ik een liedje
dat mijn moeder altijd voor mij zong.
Van bovenaf zou dit op vluchten kunnen lijken
maar van bovenaf is alles duister.
Hooguit een paar kilometer schat ik
dan komt de zon op.
Schitterend en helder licht alom.
© 2014, Alfred Schaffer
From: Mens Dier Ding
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
From: Mens Dier Ding
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Alfred Schaffer
Close
DAY(DREAM) # 3
The nights are the worst.In the distance the last farms
but nothing is recognizable anymore, not even my own voice.
Nothing, nothing makes sense anymore –
things suddenly seems dangerously close and recorded.
The water in the ditches, the wind through the knee-high grass
the porous earth and that horse over there
I think it’s a horse.
I do up my laces to buy time.
In my rucksack: water, food, dry clothes
a handful of bullets my mobile still has a signal.
I barely reflect, barely breathe.
As though I were dead but I’m bursting with life.
If I’m thirsty, I drink.
If I’m tired, I sing a song
my mother always used to sing to me.
From above this might look like running away
but everything is dark from above.
A few kilometres at the most, I guess
then the sun will come up
gleaming, clear light all around.
© 2014, Michele Hutchison
From: Mens Dier Ding
From: Mens Dier Ding
DAY(DREAM) # 3
The nights are the worst.In the distance the last farms
but nothing is recognizable anymore, not even my own voice.
Nothing, nothing makes sense anymore –
things suddenly seems dangerously close and recorded.
The water in the ditches, the wind through the knee-high grass
the porous earth and that horse over there
I think it’s a horse.
I do up my laces to buy time.
In my rucksack: water, food, dry clothes
a handful of bullets my mobile still has a signal.
I barely reflect, barely breathe.
As though I were dead but I’m bursting with life.
If I’m thirsty, I drink.
If I’m tired, I sing a song
my mother always used to sing to me.
From above this might look like running away
but everything is dark from above.
A few kilometres at the most, I guess
then the sun will come up
gleaming, clear light all around.
© 2014, Michele Hutchison
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère