Poem
Stefan Hertmans
THE CROSSING
It is those eyes in the shadowThat have been read to death.
Truth is a threatening word.
It is about terror in the wasteland,
A winged beast from bygone ages,
Atrocities flashing on a sinking screen.
You mustn’t point your finger;
It was her mother who said it.
She stuck it in her throat.
The boat tossed through a storm
That washed over the world.
Unintelligible her judgement,
Something that couldn’t be transcribed,
A finger in a bleeding eye,
And drifting nameless down the years.
© Translation: 2016, Donald Gardner
De overtocht
De overtocht
Het zijn die ogen in de schaduwDie dood gelezen zijn.
Waarheid is een woord met wapens.
Het gaat om angst in de woestijn,
Gevleugeld beest uit lang vervlogen eeuwen,
wreedheden flitsend op een zinkend scherm.
Je moet niet met je vinger wijzen,
Het was haar moeder die het zei.
Ze stak hem in haar keel,
De boot schokte zich door een storm
Die de wereld overspoelde.
Haar vonnis onverstaanbaar,
Iets dat zich niet liet schrijven,
Een vinger in een bloedend oog,
En naamloos door de jaren drijven.
© 2015, Stefan Hertmans
From: Neem en lees
Publisher: CPNB,
From: Neem en lees
Publisher: CPNB,
Poems
Poems of Stefan Hertmans
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THE CROSSING
It is those eyes in the shadowThat have been read to death.
Truth is a threatening word.
It is about terror in the wasteland,
A winged beast from bygone ages,
Atrocities flashing on a sinking screen.
You mustn’t point your finger;
It was her mother who said it.
She stuck it in her throat.
The boat tossed through a storm
That washed over the world.
Unintelligible her judgement,
Something that couldn’t be transcribed,
A finger in a bleeding eye,
And drifting nameless down the years.
© 2016, Donald Gardner
From: Neem en lees
From: Neem en lees
THE CROSSING
It is those eyes in the shadowThat have been read to death.
Truth is a threatening word.
It is about terror in the wasteland,
A winged beast from bygone ages,
Atrocities flashing on a sinking screen.
You mustn’t point your finger;
It was her mother who said it.
She stuck it in her throat.
The boat tossed through a storm
That washed over the world.
Unintelligible her judgement,
Something that couldn’t be transcribed,
A finger in a bleeding eye,
And drifting nameless down the years.
© 2016, Donald Gardner
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