Stel dy Sisyfus lokkich foar
Gun my fannacht dat ik ûntreastber bin,
sadat him gjin deadsdriuw oankundiget,
it moanneljocht de sinne-opgong net oerredet.
Ik waard berne foar’t de sinne opgong –
wannear’t de moarn har fermommet as nacht,
de temperatuer fan bloed, triljende
mûle yn rou. Hoe skriuwe wy
ús sêfte berte by, de hichte
wêrop’t wy wienen – wienen wy goaden
dy’t stjerren lâns in parhelium-himel rôlen,
lykas skarabeeën? Wy falle earne tusken god
en mineraal, ingel en dier yn,
ferwachtsje dat in ding sa hillich as de sinne
kliuwt en sinkt as in gewoan bist.
Herten begnuve libbenleaze kealtsjes foar’t
se fuortgean, oaljefanten foarmje in sirkel
om de skedels en tosken fan har deaden hinne –
net ien wol de bonken achterlitte, net ien wit
dat fuortgean it ferlies ferlytset. Mar fûgels
plôkje har eigen fearren, hûnen
slikje harsels om te ferwûnen. Stean my
dat ta. Gun my fannacht dat ik fykje
en sâltsje wat iepenleit. Gun my in lodde
om de alrún te wjudzjen en hear
hoe’t er raast. Gun my in gesicht dat sa ynlik
mei stien omwraamt dat it sels
stien is. Ik sis ta dat ik wer yn it fleis kom.
Ik sis ta dat ik sirkelje om op te stigen.
Ik sis ta, moarn bin ik lokkich.
Oantekening fan de auteur. De titel is ûntliend oan de lêste sin fan Albert Camus syn essay ‘Le mythe de Sisyphe’. Ek de rigels ‘Gun my in gesicht dat sa ynlik / mei stien omwraamt dat it sels / stien is’ binne loswei ûntliend oan
Imagine Sisyphus Happy
Give me tonight to be inconsolable,
so the death drive does not declare
itself, so the moonlight does not convince
sunrise. I was born before sunrise—
when morning masquerades as night,
the temperature of blood, quivering
mouth in mourning. How do we
author our gentle birth, the height
we were—were we gods rolling stars across
a sundog sky, the same as scarabs?
We fall somewhere between god
and mineral, angel and animal,
expecting a thing as sacred as the sun to rise
and fall like an ordinary beast.
Deer sniff lifeless fawns before leaving,
elephants encircle the skulls and tusks
of their dead—none wanting to leave
the bones behind, none knowing
their leave will lessen the loss. But birds
pluck their own feathers, dogs
lick themselves to wound. Allow me this
luxury. Give me tonight to cut
and salt the open. Give me a shovel
to uproot the mandrake and listen
for its scream. Give me a face that toils
so closely with stone, it is itself
stone. I promise to enter the flesh again.
I promise to circle to ascend.
I promise to be happy tomorrow.
Note from the author. The title is borrowed from the final sentence of Albert Camus’s essay “The Myth of Sisyphus.” The lines “Give me a face that toils / so closely with stone,
Ut Ordinary Beast, Ecco, New York 2017. Oernommen mei tastimming fan de auteur.
