Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Valzhyna Mort

it’s so hard to believe

it’s so hard to believe
that once we were even younger
than now
that our skin was so thin
that veins blued through it
like lines in school notebooks
that the world was a homeless dog
that played with us after classes
and we were thinking of taking it home
but somebody else took it first
gave it a name
and trained it “stranger”
against us

and this is why we wake up late at night
and light up the candles of our tv sets
and in their warm flame we recognize
faces and cities
and courageous in the morning
we dethrone omelets from frying pans . . .

but our dog grew up on another’s leash
our mothers suddenly stopped sleeping with men
and looking at them today
it’s so easy to believe in the immaculate conception

and now imagine:
somewhere there are towns
with white stone houses
scattered along the ocean shore
like the eggs of gigantic water birds
and every house carries a legend of a captain
and every legend starts with
“young and handsome . . .”

wat is het moeilijk te geloven

wat is het moeilijk te geloven dat wij nog jonger waren
dan nu
dat onze huid zo dun was
dat de aderen er blauw doorheen schemerden
als de lijntjes in een schoolschrift.
dat de wereld een simpele zwerfhond was
die na school met ons meeliep naar huis
en we wilden hem allemaal meenemen
maar hij werd meegenomen door een ander
die hem een naam gaf en het commando ‘vreemdelingen!’ leerde om hem
tegen ons op te zetten. 

en daarom worden we ’s nachts wakker
en steken we de kaarsjes van de televisie aan
en in hun warme vlammetjes herkennen wij
gezichten en steden
en vermetel werpen we ’s morgens de eieren uit de koekenpan...

maar onze hond groeide op aan de lijn van een ander
en onze moeders hielden ineens op met mannen te slapen
en als we vandaag naar hen kijken wordt het
steeds makkelijker om in de onbevlekte ontvangenis te geloven

en stel je nu eens voor:
ergens zijn er steden
met stenen witte huizen
verspreid langs de kust van de oceaan
als de eieren van reusachtige zeevogels
en in elk huis is er een legende over een kapitein
en allemaal beginnen ze zo:
‘Jong en schoon...’

нават цяжка паверыць што мы былі яшчэ маладзейшыя
чым цяпер
што нашая скура была такая тонкая
што вены блакітнелі праз яе
як лінеечка ў школьных сшытках
што сусьвет быў простым дваровым сабакам
і кожны раз сустракаў нас ля дому пасьля ўрокаў
і мы ўсё хацелі забраць яго да сябе
а потым яго забраў нехта іншы –
даў імя і вучыў камандзе “чужы”
на нас

і таму мы прачынаемся па начох
і запальваем сьвечкі тэлевізараў
і ў іх цёплым полымі пазнаем
твары і гарады
і сьмелыя зранку зьвяргаем яечню з патэльні . . .

а наш сабака вырас на чужым павадку
а нашыя маці раптам перасталі спаць з мужчынамі
і гледзячы на іх сёньня
усё лягчэй паверыць у нявіннае зачацьце

а зараз уяві сабе:
дзесьці ёсць гарады
з каменнымі белымі дамамі
раскіданымі ўзжоўж берагу акіяну
як яйкі гіганцкіх марскіх птушак
і ў кожным доме – легенда пра капітана
і кожная пачынаецца так:
“Малады і прыгожы...”
Close

it’s so hard to believe

it’s so hard to believe
that once we were even younger
than now
that our skin was so thin
that veins blued through it
like lines in school notebooks
that the world was a homeless dog
that played with us after classes
and we were thinking of taking it home
but somebody else took it first
gave it a name
and trained it “stranger”
against us

and this is why we wake up late at night
and light up the candles of our tv sets
and in their warm flame we recognize
faces and cities
and courageous in the morning
we dethrone omelets from frying pans . . .

but our dog grew up on another’s leash
our mothers suddenly stopped sleeping with men
and looking at them today
it’s so easy to believe in the immaculate conception

and now imagine:
somewhere there are towns
with white stone houses
scattered along the ocean shore
like the eggs of gigantic water birds
and every house carries a legend of a captain
and every legend starts with
“young and handsome . . .”

it’s so hard to believe

it’s so hard to believe
that once we were even younger
than now
that our skin was so thin
that veins blued through it
like lines in school notebooks
that the world was a homeless dog
that played with us after classes
and we were thinking of taking it home
but somebody else took it first
gave it a name
and trained it “stranger”
against us

and this is why we wake up late at night
and light up the candles of our tv sets
and in their warm flame we recognize
faces and cities
and courageous in the morning
we dethrone omelets from frying pans . . .

but our dog grew up on another’s leash
our mothers suddenly stopped sleeping with men
and looking at them today
it’s so easy to believe in the immaculate conception

and now imagine:
somewhere there are towns
with white stone houses
scattered along the ocean shore
like the eggs of gigantic water birds
and every house carries a legend of a captain
and every legend starts with
“young and handsome . . .”
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère