One thing holds, the other does not.
Today two hours of yesterday's repeats.
We have plenty of time, take note:

Back on form but too late
so you're left out
also to the eye
that follows after.

Where would the team be without a ball
in the mist of Buitenveldert
the word ball left unspoken yet on people's lips:
she shouldn't have been standing there

there
they commented on how to get into the game.

No game but a fresh little dress
held in the air by eleven men.

Eleven men hanging beside their bodies.
This happens suddenly
some dodging and rushing after who's playing it.

Eleven could be ten could be seven or
popped out for some beers for
what I can't recall.

Not quite there yet
when a minute surrounds the men
and dries them off with silence

clenched hands that want nothing better

to get over the defeat

if this were to fail.

Translation: 2005, Willem Groenewegen