Poem
Stefan Hertmans
ADULTERY OF GLASSES
We drank time out of the bowlof our hands, until
from our pedestals we clenched
the tall and slender stems,
hand on hand, glass on glass,
and tinkling set out
on the longed-for free fall,
breaking without splinters
on a bottomless ground.
Gave each other that special thing
that ran out in the day’s last light,
the taste of bitter promises.
We named the past
while we were living it,
we wrote it to each other
in rings of ruby red,
we drunk ourselves a deeper present
till the bottom raised us up.
© Translation: 2017, Donald Gardner
HET OVERSPEL DER GLAZEN
HET OVERSPEL DER GLAZEN
We dronken tijd uit de komvan onze handen, totdat we,
van ons voetstuk voor elkaar,
de ijle hoge stelen grepen,
hand om hand, glas om glas,
en rinkelend begonnen
aan de verhoopte vrije val,
brekend zonder scherven
op een bodemloze grond.
Reikten elkaar het eigene
dat leegliep in het laatste licht,
de smaak van bittere beloften.
We noemden het verleden
terwijl we het beleefden,
we schreven het elkaar
in kringen van robijnrood toe,
we dronken ons een dieper heden
tot de bodem ons verhief.
© 2017, Stefan Hertmans
Poems
Poems of Stefan Hertmans
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ADULTERY OF GLASSES
We drank time out of the bowlof our hands, until
from our pedestals we clenched
the tall and slender stems,
hand on hand, glass on glass,
and tinkling set out
on the longed-for free fall,
breaking without splinters
on a bottomless ground.
Gave each other that special thing
that ran out in the day’s last light,
the taste of bitter promises.
We named the past
while we were living it,
we wrote it to each other
in rings of ruby red,
we drunk ourselves a deeper present
till the bottom raised us up.
© 2017, Donald Gardner
ADULTERY OF GLASSES
We drank time out of the bowlof our hands, until
from our pedestals we clenched
the tall and slender stems,
hand on hand, glass on glass,
and tinkling set out
on the longed-for free fall,
breaking without splinters
on a bottomless ground.
Gave each other that special thing
that ran out in the day’s last light,
the taste of bitter promises.
We named the past
while we were living it,
we wrote it to each other
in rings of ruby red,
we drunk ourselves a deeper present
till the bottom raised us up.
© 2017, Donald Gardner
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