We keep on fighting until we hear the grass growing.
Clouds hum through the sky. We hang our weapons
up and drape streamers over the guard dogs. Our eyes
have been detoxified. Only birds build our temples.
Introductory Love is made a compulsory subject
at secondary school. With every greeting,
we grow new brain cells, with every friendly word.
Nothing saddens a citizen more than a sad
neighbour. Mother figures dominate all
administrative bodies. The TV is on antipsychotics.
And the god of Spinoza returns, finally,
to quiet down the other gods; perfectly calm
they eat chips in the Voetboogstraat.
Quarrels between neighbours culminate in
weddings or lifelong friendships. Storms
wait until everyone's inside. A troop of angels
assists the outreach workers. When the day
asks the night to wait a sec, the night sometimes listens.
We go back to living with the dead in our hearts,
and the dead feel for us. Imams, rabbis, preachers,
politicians and professors dress up in monkey suits
and walk silently through the city in an annual parade.
The bird-watchers' party is up again in the polls!
The party of the last remaining philatelists
is also doing well. Evil, we tell each other, was lured
back into the underworld, which was then filled
with concrete. And Good, Good always beats us to it.
Twinkling non-stop in our green and blue,
our brown and grey eyes is the immortal soul.
Cartons of milk and jars of honey are available
free on street corners. Buddha licks his iPhone clean.
Demagogues grow roses in the parks. The stock exchange
has been taken over by musicians. The god
of Abraham laughs the loudest at the jokes
they make about him. False prophets
rip off their fake beards, burst out crying
and fall into the arms of transvestites.

Translation: David Colmer