Sometimes a woman decides to lie down on the bed
and to get up when she knows what's the matter,
has put into words what is
disengaging her, where
where a cleft is starting.
Sometimes the woman gets up in a minute. Stays there,
for an hour. Sometimes half a day.

Sometimes a traveller arrives in a town
that for some reason or other surprises him.
The manners of its inhabitants, the splendour, light fall,
the rhythm food is it the accent there is something that
makes everything purposeless in a way -
the traveller decides to leave the town when he
understands the town. This can take years. Sometimes
he doesn't ever leave.

Sometimes a child decides to look at pictures of its mother
until it knows what sort of woman and why.

A mystic and his god. A painter and his model.
The painter finds a way to say it in silence
or goes mad. Years later a shepherd
finds the mortal remains of the mystic.

Translation: 2004, Willem Groenewegen