He planted a thorn in her side
To enslave her:
She draws water from the well
Prepares morning coffee
Picks his teeth for bits of food
And women.
Clap, clap
He claps his hands
She becomes a stretch of land
And provides him with wheat, barley and oranges
Clap, clap
She rises as a cross in a field
A scare-crow
To birds, an object of laughter for linguists and looters
Then she purifies water from the pond
To wash her fingers, which bandits had cut with their swords
And spreads his shirt on her chest
To let the blood dry
Clap
She turns into a waterwheel
Irrigates the soil
Draws circles and shades
On the water
To complete the picture.
At noon
He claps again
She becomes a hornbill
Digs for worms, takes stains from cotton threads
Then turns into a fish
Swallows silt
And empties her stomach in the Northern rose-field.
Clap, clap, clap, clap
She becomes a filly
He mounts
To inspect his vast gardens
Nietzsche's whip in his hand:
Mayor of the village.
The old farmer
Knowing villagers' wisdom and customs
Trained the woman according to demon law
Then took a nap at the side of the ditch
Looked in her eyes
She became a maiden
With whom he slept
Making her pregnant of a reddish girl
He killed
She was pretty
Therefore,
He disfigured her face on photos
With black chalk,
Because her beauty
Made his friends ugly
Before sunset
His throat went dry
She became a piece of gum
He chewed
Then,
Spat out
What stretched itself in the sand
And transformed to Eve.
Attaining womanhood
She slept in the hope of resurrection.
At sunset
He removed the thorn
And she vaporized.

Translated by: Kees Nijland