Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Anneke Brassinga

III

Just as from the wavering screech of the buzzard
for the one listening in the field,
so too from this weaving silence

distance can be measured –
of a pristine nature. The regiment,
departed at dawn,

has climbed the horizon
and, with flutes and trumpets,
dropped down behind it

into fields of oblivion,
no sound
comes forth from there.

And all my life
I will wait in case
what’s silent calls out

to me.

III

III

Zoals aan de zwevende kreet van de buizerd
voor wie luistert op het veld,
zo is aan deze wevende stilte

afstand af te meten –
van ongerepte aard. Het regiment,
bij dageraad vertrokken,

het heeft de horizon beklommen
en is, met fluiten en trompetten,
daarachter afgedaald

naar velden van vergetelheid,
geen klank
komt ervandaan.

En al mijn leven
zal ik wachten
of daar mij roept

wat zwijgt.
 
Close

III

Just as from the wavering screech of the buzzard
for the one listening in the field,
so too from this weaving silence

distance can be measured –
of a pristine nature. The regiment,
departed at dawn,

has climbed the horizon
and, with flutes and trumpets,
dropped down behind it

into fields of oblivion,
no sound
comes forth from there.

And all my life
I will wait in case
what’s silent calls out

to me.

III

Just as from the wavering screech of the buzzard
for the one listening in the field,
so too from this weaving silence

distance can be measured –
of a pristine nature. The regiment,
departed at dawn,

has climbed the horizon
and, with flutes and trumpets,
dropped down behind it

into fields of oblivion,
no sound
comes forth from there.

And all my life
I will wait in case
what’s silent calls out

to me.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère