Poem
J. Bernlef
The museum of childhood
It\'s always somewhere, but whoever happens upon itin some nameless street, usually runs into
a closed door behind which silence reigns
Or seems to reign. Most go on
back to the familiar layout of streets
and forget its existence.
Is the museum fluid, can it be folded
does it consist of prisms, electric fields
or just coincide with whoever thinks of it?
It\'s mostly deserted, the walls
and display cases empty save for dates
each debating whether the other is accurate
Or it fills with fog, with a
hesitant voice inside claiming
to remember nothing, virtually nothing.
But one single face, sound, incidence of light
can suddenly afford entrance to the
exposition where all has proven preserved.
Het museum van de kindertijd
Het museum van de kindertijd
Het is altijd ergens, maar wie het bij toeval ontdektin een naamloze straat, stuit meestal op een
dichte deur waarachter stilte heerst
Of lijkt te heersen. De meesten lopen door
terug naar het vertrouwde stratenplan
en vergeten zijn bestaan.
Is het museum vloeibaar, opvouwbaar
bestaat het uit prisma’s, electrische velden
of valt het soms samen met wie eraan denkt?
Meestal is het verlaten, de wanden
en uitstalkasten leeg op de jaartallen na
die elkaar hun juistheid betwisten
Of het vult zich met mist, met daarin
een aarzelende stem die beweert zich
niets meer te herinneren, vrijwel niets.
Maar één gezicht, één geluid, één lichtval
kan plotseling de toegang verschaffen tot de
expositie waar alles bewaard blijkt te zijn.
Poems
Poems of J. Bernlef
Close
The museum of childhood
It\'s always somewhere, but whoever happens upon itin some nameless street, usually runs into
a closed door behind which silence reigns
Or seems to reign. Most go on
back to the familiar layout of streets
and forget its existence.
Is the museum fluid, can it be folded
does it consist of prisms, electric fields
or just coincide with whoever thinks of it?
It\'s mostly deserted, the walls
and display cases empty save for dates
each debating whether the other is accurate
Or it fills with fog, with a
hesitant voice inside claiming
to remember nothing, virtually nothing.
But one single face, sound, incidence of light
can suddenly afford entrance to the
exposition where all has proven preserved.
The museum of childhood
It\'s always somewhere, but whoever happens upon itin some nameless street, usually runs into
a closed door behind which silence reigns
Or seems to reign. Most go on
back to the familiar layout of streets
and forget its existence.
Is the museum fluid, can it be folded
does it consist of prisms, electric fields
or just coincide with whoever thinks of it?
It\'s mostly deserted, the walls
and display cases empty save for dates
each debating whether the other is accurate
Or it fills with fog, with a
hesitant voice inside claiming
to remember nothing, virtually nothing.
But one single face, sound, incidence of light
can suddenly afford entrance to the
exposition where all has proven preserved.
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