Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Bart Van der Straeten

and the trees

the here and the now
and the trees

there’s nothing else besides 
not far off is beauty, greatness 
  
that teeters or falls, the consolation
of a dead monument, the breath   

of a thousand druids who sing
the thirst and the hunger of the birds

caved into the on high, yet staring 
bemuredly into daughters’ eyes, collapse  

under fear and expectation, loose
the days, the years

of toiling the soil. Hope,    
and sinful repetition     

that everything was said, has to become,
keep the peace, deprive the world

of her words, silence
the wolves.

en de bomen

en de bomen

het hier en het nu
en de bomen

meer in de grond is er
niet, niet ver weg het schone, het grote

dat wankelt of neervalt, de troost
van een dood monument, de adem

van duizend druïden die zingen
de dorst en de honger van vogels

gezwicht voor het hoge, verdwaasd
in de ogen van dochters nog kijken, bezwijken

aan angst en verwachting, de dagen
verliezen, de jaren

van werk in de aarde, hopen,
en heilloos herhalen

dat alles gezegd werd, moet worden,
de vrede bewaren, de wereld

haar woorden ontnemen, de wolven
doen zwijgen.
Close

and the trees

the here and the now
and the trees

there’s nothing else besides 
not far off is beauty, greatness 
  
that teeters or falls, the consolation
of a dead monument, the breath   

of a thousand druids who sing
the thirst and the hunger of the birds

caved into the on high, yet staring 
bemuredly into daughters’ eyes, collapse  

under fear and expectation, loose
the days, the years

of toiling the soil. Hope,    
and sinful repetition     

that everything was said, has to become,
keep the peace, deprive the world

of her words, silence
the wolves.

and the trees

the here and the now
and the trees

there’s nothing else besides 
not far off is beauty, greatness 
  
that teeters or falls, the consolation
of a dead monument, the breath   

of a thousand druids who sing
the thirst and the hunger of the birds

caved into the on high, yet staring 
bemuredly into daughters’ eyes, collapse  

under fear and expectation, loose
the days, the years

of toiling the soil. Hope,    
and sinful repetition     

that everything was said, has to become,
keep the peace, deprive the world

of her words, silence
the wolves.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère