Now we're the window case
here in this kitchen, they
do look at the pretty
neighbour opposite
on her balcony or a
modest scheduled flight
passing above, but not
at us, who frame it all.

And now we're the boards
in this floor, fat chance
they'll hear us either,
even though we creak quite
loudly at the merest
touch and they displace
quite a few feet while
cooking or having words.

Even now we are
the table they eat at with
our legs between their own
and our wood under
bare hands, we've been forgot:
they chew the fat at us
and their children sprouts
they want to go without.

But we've all put forth
our leaves, against wild
skies have felt the wind
rage inside us. And
below a few of us
this was listened to and
pondered standing still.

Translation: 2005, Willem Groenewegen