I saw four hanged people:
lights, spiders on their threads -
mind like autumn, old light
flickering on and off in cold spaces

I saw four hanged people, delusion
shadows and autumn burning
in brushfires by the forest's edge
branches of the wild apple tree

In ancestral jars
the sound of inaudible echoes
waiting till the storm of leaves,
until the storm of leaves is over

The dusky house in the woods
has walls as thick as axe blades,
half-closed shutters at the windows
and the light burns far less bright

Four compass points, in the branches
of the apple tree, four seasons
every one in autumn dress -
The wood's edge looks frightful

Did it then seem as if the door departed,
that the door left home?
As a sail, billowing in the wind?
Come on. Doors don't leave home

Translation: 2008, Willem Groenewegen