Poem
Stefan Hertmans
THE FREE FALL OF DAYS
There is in intervals of expectancyno pit so shallow that the soul
fails to tumble in: the phlox that are no roses,
cloudlessly raining, bronze that crumbles
like stale cake, empty portraiture
before a breathed-on mirror,
your pale eyes which, said Baudelaire,
convey the tempest of a passion in a stain,
more insignificant than you or I,
because our dying is announced
in someone else’s clothes,
the interval in which you are no longer
expected, a hole in which
your life once lay,
as night draws in your neighbour whistles low
‘No milk today’, or for tomorrow anyway.
© Translation: 2017, Donald Gardner
DE VAL VAN VRIJE DAGEN
DE VAL VAN VRIJE DAGEN
Er is, in tussentijden van verwachting,geen gat zo ondiep of de ziel tuimelt
erin: de floxen die geen rozen zijn,
wolkeloos geregen, brons dat tot
koek verkruimelt, lege portretkunst
voor een beademde spiegel,
je bleke ogen die, zei Baudelaire,
het onweer van een passie in een
vlekje dragen, nietiger dan jij en ik,
want aangekondigd is ons doodgaan
in andermans kleren,
de tussentijd waarin je niet meer
wordt verwacht, een gat waar
ooit je leven zat,
tegen de avond fluit de buurman zacht
No milk today, alvast voor morgen.
From: De val van vrije dagen
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Stefan Hertmans
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THE FREE FALL OF DAYS
There is in intervals of expectancyno pit so shallow that the soul
fails to tumble in: the phlox that are no roses,
cloudlessly raining, bronze that crumbles
like stale cake, empty portraiture
before a breathed-on mirror,
your pale eyes which, said Baudelaire,
convey the tempest of a passion in a stain,
more insignificant than you or I,
because our dying is announced
in someone else’s clothes,
the interval in which you are no longer
expected, a hole in which
your life once lay,
as night draws in your neighbour whistles low
‘No milk today’, or for tomorrow anyway.
© 2017, Donald Gardner
From: De val van vrije dagen
From: De val van vrije dagen
THE FREE FALL OF DAYS
There is in intervals of expectancyno pit so shallow that the soul
fails to tumble in: the phlox that are no roses,
cloudlessly raining, bronze that crumbles
like stale cake, empty portraiture
before a breathed-on mirror,
your pale eyes which, said Baudelaire,
convey the tempest of a passion in a stain,
more insignificant than you or I,
because our dying is announced
in someone else’s clothes,
the interval in which you are no longer
expected, a hole in which
your life once lay,
as night draws in your neighbour whistles low
‘No milk today’, or for tomorrow anyway.
© 2017, Donald Gardner
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