A poem by the Flemish writer Erik Spinoy

At the Jewish cemetery

many of the stones lie overturned. Their lie

does not seem random to me, nor their fall

as being caused by gravity, but rather by

a power that has an underlying reason.

So that each slab or tombstone there lies

thwacked down with a purpose – a soul – and waits

on the bühne of the cemetery till someone

who comprehends comes in from the wings.

But what then am I doing here? None of these

stone bodies moves at all, no voice is to

be heard that pierces their grey outlines.

We always stand as strangers next to one

another. From them to me no gesture reaches out

that can be long enough.