THE SKULL LAUGHS THOUGH THE FACE CRIES

One day, I know, I’ll outface
death with skull grinning. At least
I’ll retain my sense of humour. But
whether, like the late Mrs. Ples
or the bluebuck of my native land,
I’ll warrant a glass case in a museum . . . ?
Man is not exactly a rare animal.

Still, how clever we are with our
inner clockwork-genius, how strong
the wide swaying crane-like gestures
with which we drop rectangular skyscrapers
in residential areas and business centres.
Remarkable our scrambling research
right through dolomite to sink our arms
shaft-deep to grab and haul up
the grey ore, grinding
and refining it to bar on bar of hive-like
packed safes of investments. Oh yes,
absolutely marvelous our ability to enrich
discarded sand to fire-dust
which, if we wanted to, might just
furiously, beautifully burn up everything
in an ultimate unrepeatable blaze.

Didn’t I say the skull laughs
though the face cries?

Die skedel lag al huil die gesig

Die skedel lag al huil die gesig

Eendag sal ek, weet ek, die dood
met laggende skedel trotseer. Minstens
my sin vir humor sal ek behou. Maar
of ek soos oorlee mevrou Ples en soos
die bloubok van my geboorteland
ook ’n glaskas in ’n museum sal haal?
’n Seldsame dier is die mens nou nie juis.

Tog, hoe slim tog is ons met ons
innerlike uurwerkvernuf, hoe sterk
die groot swaaiende hyskraangebare
waarmee ons wolkekrabbers reghoekig
neerplak in woon- en sakekomplekse.
Merkwaardig ons grabbelende navorsing
dwarsdeur dolomiet om ons arms diep
soos skagte te sink en die grys erts
te gryp en op te trek, te vergruis en te
veredel tot staaf op staaf korfagtig
gepakte kluise van belegging. A ja,
wonderbaarlik ons vermoë om weggooisand
tot vuurstof te verryk wat as ons wou
alles onherhaalbaar in allerlaaste oplaaiing
woes skoon kan laat ontbrand.

Ek sê mos die skedel lag
al huil en huil die gesig.