Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Stefan Hertmans

ON THE RUN

He had a hand
That pointed to the horizon.
The other was not there.
 
His mother, once a myth of spring,
The trembling of her lower lip,
The pain that wandered through the heat,
And how it was on the waves.
 
He still remembers how the light went under,
How everything in his body died
And that he then
 
Had that hand again, another
Which refused what he didn’t have,
Something they never gave
Though they held it out to him.
 
He spoke of black horizons,
A world with no way in,
Tear gas and dead children,
Barbed wire in his own mind.
No one promising anything. 

Op de vlucht

Op de vlucht

Hij had een hand die
Naar de einder wees
en een die er niet was.

Zijn moeder ooit een lentesprookje,
Het trillen van haar onderlip,
De pijn die door de hitte liep
En hoe het op de golven was.

Hij weet nog hoe licht onderging,
Hoe alles doofde in zijn lijf,
En dat hij dan

Die hand weer had, een andere,
Die weigerde wat hem ontbrak,
Iets wat men naar hem uitstak
Maar niet gaf.

Hij sprak van zwarte einders,
Een wereld zonder opening,
Traangas en dode kinderen,
Prikkeldraad in het eigen hoofd.
Niemand die iets belooft.
Close

ON THE RUN

He had a hand
That pointed to the horizon.
The other was not there.
 
His mother, once a myth of spring,
The trembling of her lower lip,
The pain that wandered through the heat,
And how it was on the waves.
 
He still remembers how the light went under,
How everything in his body died
And that he then
 
Had that hand again, another
Which refused what he didn’t have,
Something they never gave
Though they held it out to him.
 
He spoke of black horizons,
A world with no way in,
Tear gas and dead children,
Barbed wire in his own mind.
No one promising anything. 

ON THE RUN

He had a hand
That pointed to the horizon.
The other was not there.
 
His mother, once a myth of spring,
The trembling of her lower lip,
The pain that wandered through the heat,
And how it was on the waves.
 
He still remembers how the light went under,
How everything in his body died
And that he then
 
Had that hand again, another
Which refused what he didn’t have,
Something they never gave
Though they held it out to him.
 
He spoke of black horizons,
A world with no way in,
Tear gas and dead children,
Barbed wire in his own mind.
No one promising anything. 
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère