With one hand in my lap,
with my other hand on the table.
My head is located above it;in which a landscape drops anchor, sun-drenched.
It is one moonless evening.
While his son carefully
draws the sculls through the water,
his father stands by the hissing lamp,
leaning forward, peering into the sea,
trident raised. Where is it,
now that I am writing it; where am I,
now that you are rereading this?
From Springvossen (Amsterdam: De Bezige Bij, 2000). By arrangement with the estate of Hans Faverey.
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