Tuesday 5 June 2012

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.

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