Poem by the Flemish writer Hugo Claus

i write you down

My wife, my heathen altar,

That I play and caress with fingers of light,

My young wood that I overwinter,

My neurotic, unchaste and tender emblem,

I write your breath and your body down

On lined music paper.

And against your ear I promise brand-new horoscopes

And prepare you once more for world travels

And a sojourn in some Austria or other.

But by gods and constellations

Eternal happiness also grows mortally weary,

And I have no house, I have no bed,

I do not even have any birthday flowers for you.

I write you down on paper

While you swell and blossom like a July orchard.