An ideal spot for history is difficult to find.
The radio reports that traffic was severely hindered. Then
the uncertainty about the numbers.
What a nerve, beside the motion of the land
and the immobility of water
the shock a voice is coming forward from the background
telling us to keep our distance
and join the queue at the right till?
To then wake up on the ward.
Everywhere the rustling in forgotten phrases, waves behind the drapes
and water that laps against the beds.
Is speaking still allowed here
can I retrieve my voice from somewhere?
The captions make it all just too long ago, too far away.
Just when I, gesticulating wildly,
wish to confess to the day that I am out of place and drowning
there is nobody looking in my direction.

Translation: 2014, Willem Groenewegen