A man like the one recently found, nicely made
a little younger for this occasion and glancing
in such a way that his hand can shake yours
and his voice can bring coolness.

Opposite this the world, large, nowhere clearly defined
won back from the newspaper, the bar table and the blind stream
of cigarettes, but lost after the procession
when a tougher farewell awaits than to the dead
whom we toast and toast.

Clouds are copied in thought
so that, also in thought, shadows dominate
the squares and conversations and bring coolness
in those inexplicably persistent minutes of heat, of
smiling people who explain to you
how suicide works and road construction
who denounce those inexplicably persistent minutes.

Between the man and the world
the parts of an entire season
lots of skirts, smoke and sunlight in every window, walkers from the left
and cyclists around the corner where the containers are.

Days when few things happen at the appointed time.
The rest doesn't happen at all.

Translation: 2008, Willem Groenewegen