Far from the Indians in the camp,
from people smelling of oil,
the pencil behind the
greengrocer's ear.
Far from the undercoat on the gate,
the sand in one's hair,
from all that's alive,
the little brother lies still in the cot.

The newspaper doesn't know what
to do with its cod. The ounce of tomatoes
blows its nose in the bag - sadness
leaking everywhere. The paint catches
flies and the sky looks blue.

The father keeps on blowing air
and presses keys no longer
generating sound.
A walk on a tiled floor, to
those looking back, is vexingly

slow. We put a doll in
a box, leave small change on
a saucer, eat some butter biscuits,
bow to everything. No, candles
aren't for us. The soil is hard
to our spades. The neighbours behind
the privet hedge are silent.

You can hear her
cawing in the crows by the canal.

Translation: Willem Groenewegen