It's all there, everything, but not wholeheartedly. It
apologises: every painter would have done this better.

To me, softy, to save the day.
It's nice, everything! It has to be nice! But about my

chapping lips there's a tic playing called a grin
that's settling in - a tick on a dog, sickness of the chest.

Defoliate, tree, fall on the murky heads, heaven,
do something. Glory unto me. Dejection unto me.

One doesn't actually relieve oneself and one contributes
to the imperfection of one's own body and soul.

To no avail, of course.

Translation: 2004, Willem Groenewegen