Poem
Stefan Hertmans
THE RATS
The rats envious as they areof birds, devour the bait
they are apportioned.
They gnaw and they root around,
they do not look up the while.
They fix everything with their vile
eyes and pray that misery
befall their closest friends.
They breed and they stampede,
they squeal and they harass,
they sip at the saps
of corpses and try
incessantly to look
through dead angels’ arses
at God’s bare bum.
They fuck history,
because that is also a rat.
They lurk near lovers’ quarrels and
garbage dumps, hoping a bird
will drop dead at their feet.
It will pay a price
for having wings: that’s what
they bite off first.
© Translation: 2017, Donald Gardner
DE RATTEN
DE RATTEN
De ratten, die afgunstig zijnop vogels, vreten het aas
dat hen is toebedeeld.
Ze knagen en ze wroeten,
ze kijken daarbij niet omhoog.
Ze houden alles in het vuile
oog en bidden om ellende
voor hun beste vrienden.
Ze kweken en ze rennen,
ze kriepen en ze jennen,
ze sippen aan het sap
van lijken en proberen door
de aars van dode engelen
onophoudelijk naar Gods
blote kont te kijken.
Ze neuken de geschiedenis,
want dat is ook een rat.
Ze wachten op liefdestwist en
vuilnisbelt, hopend dat ooit
een vogel voor hun poten valt.
Want die zal boeten voor
zijn vleugels: die bijten ze
het eerst eraf.
© 2017, Stefan Hertmans
Poems
Poems of Stefan Hertmans
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THE RATS
The rats envious as they areof birds, devour the bait
they are apportioned.
They gnaw and they root around,
they do not look up the while.
They fix everything with their vile
eyes and pray that misery
befall their closest friends.
They breed and they stampede,
they squeal and they harass,
they sip at the saps
of corpses and try
incessantly to look
through dead angels’ arses
at God’s bare bum.
They fuck history,
because that is also a rat.
They lurk near lovers’ quarrels and
garbage dumps, hoping a bird
will drop dead at their feet.
It will pay a price
for having wings: that’s what
they bite off first.
© 2017, Donald Gardner
THE RATS
The rats envious as they areof birds, devour the bait
they are apportioned.
They gnaw and they root around,
they do not look up the while.
They fix everything with their vile
eyes and pray that misery
befall their closest friends.
They breed and they stampede,
they squeal and they harass,
they sip at the saps
of corpses and try
incessantly to look
through dead angels’ arses
at God’s bare bum.
They fuck history,
because that is also a rat.
They lurk near lovers’ quarrels and
garbage dumps, hoping a bird
will drop dead at their feet.
It will pay a price
for having wings: that’s what
they bite off first.
© 2017, Donald Gardner
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