We, as I, can hardly digest this. Seas and
mountain ranges, lying promisingly before us, fade
into something worse. You, in my place, look at me and hesitate.

You're fond of me, you say. I'd be careful of that if I were you.
Not worth my salt, me, what's whispered in my ear turns sour.
You should at least keep well away.

Nonetheless your presence is appreciated.
You are the dead sea on which I float,
you are the wide shore, the ominous mountains, you exist.

Translation: 2006, Willem Groenewegen