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)
