Poem
Miriam Van hee
SYCAMORES AT NÎMES STATION
their skin was beginning to wrinklethey were growing old and would die
as we would but without fear
as if they were in on something
and we were not
already our parting was approaching
storm cloud, derailed trains
uncertainty there always was
certainty one might achieve
but how, how
to become like the trees
I felt that I would write
(because everything was always
as it could not remain)
of how we sat here
on a bench beneath sycamores
the sun shining, a dog barking
and chasing pigeons
© Translation: 2005, Judith Wilkinson
PLATANEN BIJ HET STATION IN NÎMES
PLATANEN BIJ HET STATION IN NÎMES
hun huid begon te rimpelenze werden oud en zouden doodgaan
net als wij maar zonder angst
alsof zij ergens weet van hadden
en wij niet
het afscheid kwam al dichterbij
noodweer, ontspoorde treinen
onzekerheid was er altijd
zekerheid kon je winnen
maar hoe, hoe
kon je worden als de bomen
ik voelde dat ik schrijven zou
(omdat alles altijd was
zoals het niet kon blijven)
hoe wij hier zaten
op een bank onder platanen
de zon scheen, een hond ging blaffend
achter de duiven aan
© 1998, Miriam Van hee
From: Achter de bergen
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
From: Achter de bergen
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Miriam Van hee
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SYCAMORES AT NÎMES STATION
their skin was beginning to wrinklethey were growing old and would die
as we would but without fear
as if they were in on something
and we were not
already our parting was approaching
storm cloud, derailed trains
uncertainty there always was
certainty one might achieve
but how, how
to become like the trees
I felt that I would write
(because everything was always
as it could not remain)
of how we sat here
on a bench beneath sycamores
the sun shining, a dog barking
and chasing pigeons
© 2005, Judith Wilkinson
From: Achter de bergen
From: Achter de bergen
SYCAMORES AT NÎMES STATION
their skin was beginning to wrinklethey were growing old and would die
as we would but without fear
as if they were in on something
and we were not
already our parting was approaching
storm cloud, derailed trains
uncertainty there always was
certainty one might achieve
but how, how
to become like the trees
I felt that I would write
(because everything was always
as it could not remain)
of how we sat here
on a bench beneath sycamores
the sun shining, a dog barking
and chasing pigeons
© 2005, Judith Wilkinson
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