The chill, called morning, lies calmly on the burnt land.
A distant, grey murmur can be heard: the calm, wide sea,
luring us listlessly, much too used to victories.

The dryness of our tongues recalls yesterday, everything
recalls yesterday, and we stand up. To run naked
through the surf perhaps? Infernal cold? Great emptiness?

When ridiculous enough we get dressed. The all too great
escapes us, we handle the salt mill to make the hard eggs
palatable. Our earholes uninhabited, fossilised.

Translation: 2006, Willem Groenewegen