Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Pieter Boskma

The dunes today are very still

The dunes today are very still.
Only the sea seems in the distance
to say something softly to me,
but I don’t know if I want to hear its trill:
 
over the water a strange haze hangs,
like a gigantic eye with white cataracts,
its looks round but doesn’t recognise
and you’d almost think tears were in its eyes:
 
the waves look like great tears
and hiss light when they reach the beach,
become foam blossoms and blow away.
 
O blind cycle of the blind things,
O progress in ever receding,
O man who only of death wants to sing,
 
O God who profoundly doubts his own creature.

De duinen zijn vandaag wel erg stil

De duinen zijn vandaag wel erg stil.
Alleen de zee lijkt in de verte
zachtjes iets aan mij te zeggen,
maar ik weet niet of ik het horen wil:
 
over het water ligt een vreemde waas,
als een reusachtig oog met witte staar
kijkt het niet-herkennend om zich heen
en je zou haast denken dat het weent:
 
de golven zien eruit als grote tranen
en sissen licht als zij het strand bereiken,
tot schuim ontbloesemen en dan verwaaien.
 
O blinde kringloop van de blinde dingen,
O voortgang in een almaar verder wijken,
O mens die slechts de dood nog wil bezingen,
 
O God Die hevig twijfelt aan Zijn maaksel.
Close

The dunes today are very still

The dunes today are very still.
Only the sea seems in the distance
to say something softly to me,
but I don’t know if I want to hear its trill:
 
over the water a strange haze hangs,
like a gigantic eye with white cataracts,
its looks round but doesn’t recognise
and you’d almost think tears were in its eyes:
 
the waves look like great tears
and hiss light when they reach the beach,
become foam blossoms and blow away.
 
O blind cycle of the blind things,
O progress in ever receding,
O man who only of death wants to sing,
 
O God who profoundly doubts his own creature.

The dunes today are very still

The dunes today are very still.
Only the sea seems in the distance
to say something softly to me,
but I don’t know if I want to hear its trill:
 
over the water a strange haze hangs,
like a gigantic eye with white cataracts,
its looks round but doesn’t recognise
and you’d almost think tears were in its eyes:
 
the waves look like great tears
and hiss light when they reach the beach,
become foam blossoms and blow away.
 
O blind cycle of the blind things,
O progress in ever receding,
O man who only of death wants to sing,
 
O God who profoundly doubts his own creature.
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