Night unfolded itself to us and rules.
Hobos with somber shawms wander
along the sultry banks of the Scheldt.
Poets can tell the evening star.
Red farmers drive red bulls.
In the holes along the harbor
bull eyes leer deadly in every man.

Dark women on the footbridge
see three boats vanishing at the horizon,
listen to the splashing of the water,
lean on the rail without speaking.
But they contain their hearts,
made for great weeping, and their desires
in a dry, blind-hardened gaze.