Our tender-hearted companions we left behind,
looking into their soon to moisten eyes one more time;

we took off, utilising fully and in all seriousness
the wings growing onto us. Below

the clink of crockery and the sliding
of chairs and table, no longer moving us -

no longer moving you, for I fell back.
My wings, unfamiliar to me, withered.

Voluminous layers of salt in this soil: the mine
must be used. I, in tender-hearted company, delve,

cut, seeking happiness in deficiency.

Translation: 2006, Willem Groenewegen