Skeppend
Eendag toe hou die skepper
sy skepping soos 'n kind 'n skoelapper
op sy hand, en bibberend
spalt die gebrandskilderde vlerke.
Magtig die kleure wat gloei soos godhede
gloei, oop, toe, met groot
vertoon, die vlerke vir dag en nag.
Die skepper voel nog die pootjies
fyntjies op sy vingers en wonder
oor wat hy vermag het: oopvou
van 'n al, goudstofoortrekte lig,
en soos skeppendes maar is, bedink
hy, trots en nederig, nog ene,
nog 'n lieflike ligsinnige vlinder,
herhaaldelik, die ewigheid ter wille.
Creating
One day the creator held
his creation like a child a butterfly
in his hand, and quivering
the enamelled wings parted.
Wondrous the colours that glowed as deities
glowed, open, shut, with great
display, the wings for day and night.
The creator still feels the small feet
delicately on his fingers and is astonished
at what he has been capable of: the unfolding
of an everything, gold-dust-covered light,
and as it is with creators, he
conceives, proud and humble, one more
one more such lovely, light-hearted butterfly,
repeatedly, for the sake of eternity.
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