I DON’T WANT TO SPOIL THE MOOD

my pencil comes from a tree.

I call your name, you step
out of a gray world
and come cheerfully to me.

I cut a bird out of a book.
I paste a bird in a red sky.

I ask you:

why does a lark in the sky sing
more beautifully
than a sparrow beneath the eaves?

you say:

“better to get cracking now that measles infest the bark
and horny caterpillars strip the branches. you can’t touch me
not even if a thousand trees are felled by flu.”

I sing a light-hearted stanza
sharpen my beak on a sonorous stone.

I call your name
your sharp tongue curbs
this scrap of paper.

my pencil comes from a sick tree.

I sharpen the point
the point sharpens you.
a cut-out bird smells of paste.
a cut-up bird can’t sing.

are you that bird?
you are that bird.

that reply sends me back to the drawing board.

Ik wol de sfear net ferpeste

Ik wol de sfear net ferpeste

myn potlead stammet ôf fan in beam.

ik neam dyn namme, do stapst
út in skiere wrâld  
en komst fleurich op my ta.

in fûgel knip ik út in boekje.
in fûgel plak ik yn in reade loft.

ik freegje dy:

wêrom sjongt in ljurk oan ’e himel
moaier
as in hûsmosk ûnder de pannen?

do seist:

“nifelje leaver wat om no’t mûzels basten befolke
en gleie rûpen de tûken strippe. my kinst net reitsje
ek al sabelje tûzen beammen mei búkgryp om.”

ik sjong in blierhertich ferske
slypje de snaffel oan in heldere stien.

ik neam dyn namme
dyn skerpe mûle leit it near
op dit fodsje papier.

myn potlead stammet ôf fan in sike beam.

ik slypje de punt
de punt slipet dy.
in útknipte fûgel rûkt nei plakkersguod.
in ferknipte fûgel kin net fluitsje.

bisto dy fûgel?
do bist dy fûgel.

dat antwurd tekenet my.