Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Kreek Daey Ouwens

"Everything is always the same," says my

“Everything is always the same,” says my
eldest sister: “the sky is always blue
with sometimes a bit of white and grass is
always green. It is never red.
Never orange!”
“We too are always the same,” answers
my second sister. “We always have
the same dress. And the same shoes. And we
always play at being somebody else . . .”
“Perhaps we should die for a moment,” says my
eldest sister again. “Just for a moment
and then we’ll return. Then everything will be
new again!”
We stare at our cracked shoes in the
green grass.
“We could play at being dead,”
I suggest.
“That doesn’t count,” my eldest sister says.
“It has to be real!”
Our grandmother is at the bottom of the garden.
She just stands there. Not working. We see
her white hair. And part of her
floral apron. Up in the sky float
peaceful white clouds. A white bank of clouds
surrounded by rain. Empty and grey
like the sea.

“Alles is altijd hetzelfde,” zegt mijn

“Alles is altijd hetzelfde,” zegt mijn
oudste zusje. “De lucht is altijd blauw,
met soms een beetje wit, en het gras is
altijd groen. Nooit eens een keer rood.
Of oranje!”
“Wij zijn ook altijd hetzelfde,” ant-
woordt mijn tweede zusje. “We hebben altijd
dezelfde jurk. En dezelfde schoenen. En we
spelen altijd dat we iemand anders zijn . . . ”
“Misschien moeten we even doodgaan,” zegt
mijn oudste zusje opnieuw. “Heel even maar.
En dan komen we terug. Dan is alles weer
nieuw!”
We staren naar onze gebarsten schoenen in
het groene gras.
“We kunnen net doen alsof we dood zijn,”
stel ik voor.
“Dat telt niet,” zegt mijn oudste zusje.
“Het moet echt!”
Onze grootmoeder staat achter in de tuin.
Ze staat daar maar. Ze werkt niet. We zien
haar witte haren. En een stuk van haar ge-
bloemde schort. Boven aan de hemel drijven
rustige witte wolken. Rond het witte wol-
kenpak zijn de wolken water. Grijs en leeg
als de zee.
Close

"Everything is always the same," says my

“Everything is always the same,” says my
eldest sister: “the sky is always blue
with sometimes a bit of white and grass is
always green. It is never red.
Never orange!”
“We too are always the same,” answers
my second sister. “We always have
the same dress. And the same shoes. And we
always play at being somebody else . . .”
“Perhaps we should die for a moment,” says my
eldest sister again. “Just for a moment
and then we’ll return. Then everything will be
new again!”
We stare at our cracked shoes in the
green grass.
“We could play at being dead,”
I suggest.
“That doesn’t count,” my eldest sister says.
“It has to be real!”
Our grandmother is at the bottom of the garden.
She just stands there. Not working. We see
her white hair. And part of her
floral apron. Up in the sky float
peaceful white clouds. A white bank of clouds
surrounded by rain. Empty and grey
like the sea.

"Everything is always the same," says my

“Everything is always the same,” says my
eldest sister: “the sky is always blue
with sometimes a bit of white and grass is
always green. It is never red.
Never orange!”
“We too are always the same,” answers
my second sister. “We always have
the same dress. And the same shoes. And we
always play at being somebody else . . .”
“Perhaps we should die for a moment,” says my
eldest sister again. “Just for a moment
and then we’ll return. Then everything will be
new again!”
We stare at our cracked shoes in the
green grass.
“We could play at being dead,”
I suggest.
“That doesn’t count,” my eldest sister says.
“It has to be real!”
Our grandmother is at the bottom of the garden.
She just stands there. Not working. We see
her white hair. And part of her
floral apron. Up in the sky float
peaceful white clouds. A white bank of clouds
surrounded by rain. Empty and grey
like the sea.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère