Emily Dickinson, 355

 
It wie net Dea, want Ik stie op,
In Deade leit langút -
It wie net Nacht, want elke Klok
Stuts Deisk in Tonge út.

It wie net Froast, want op myn Hûd
Kribelen Twirren - broeisk -
Noch Fjoer - want myn albasten foet
Hold it yn Tsjerke skrousk -

En dochs, it smakke nei dit al,
Doe’t Ik de Stalten seach,
Kreas skikt foar har Beïerdiging,
’t Wie oft Ik mines seach -

As wie myn libben byskaafd
En yn in ramtwurk brocht
En lucht te koart kaam sûnder kaai,
En ’t like op Middernacht -

As al wat tikke - stean bleaun is -
En romte rûnom loert -
Of Eange ryp - dy’t Hjerstmis moarns
Fan Grûn it Bûnzjen smoart -

Mar meast op Gaos - Bliuwend - kâld -
Gjin Kâns, gjin mêst te sjen -
Of sels mar in Bewyske Lân -
Om Wanhoop - rjocht te dwaan.

 

It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down -
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos - crawl -
Nor Fire - for just my marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool -

And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine -

As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ’twas like Midnight, some -

When everything that ticked - has stopped -
And space stares all around -
Or Grisly frosts - first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground -

But, most, like Chaos - Stopless - cool -
Without a Chance, or spar -
Or even a Report of Land -
To justify - Despair.

 

F355 (J510)

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