We walk, the two of us, through the autumn day.
And in spring too I feel no different.
We walk through much brown tavern-brown of leaves
through much dark-red loss, appellation controlée,

that deepens in the cellar of the years.
We walk through the beiger-turning woods of Drente.
Hear the wind passing through the hennaed trees
sounding like an oboe, tramp among instruments.

33, and in the midst of the dark wood
of life. And with a sense of nowhere belonging,
at home in the woods and desolate at home.

Will we one day, maybe, ever?
The summer is past, the hay-making is over.
The here is nowhere, and the now is never.

Translation: 1980, Tanis Guest