Soms schrijf ik een vers in het Engels. Het gaat makkelijker dan in het Nederlands – ik denk omdat de dichterlijke traditie me er minder in de weg zit.

The Widow and the Mouse

The world is full of dread and grief,
As Science not yet knows;
In caves of stubborn unbelief
The desperation glows.

A Widow, walking on the street,
Reflects her life and age:
The Bible she has stopped to read;
Her comfort is her rage.

I once discussed a big taboo:
The danger was a Mouse;
A bachelor like Winnetoo
Could not have been a spouse.

The Widow hears a distant call:
The Mouse treads on her foot;
It is a tender animal,
No Shatterhand will shoot.

Look at the Widow’s milk-white thighs,
So definitely crossed;
Her body recollects the sighs
That are forever lost.

No Mouse has ever told the truth;
No Mouse has ever lied;
No Widow’s conscience is that smooth,
But both have multiplied.

The Widow thinks about the State,
Whose buildings are so huge;
In wood and plastic Mice create
A hole for their refuge.

We all are forced to lead a life
As if w’re able to;
And man creates from nine to five
A reasonable Zoo.

And yesterday I prayed to God
For courage and for cash;
“Why me a pig, O Lord, why mud
The proper place to wash?”

No answer got I, but perhaps
He structured lonely time;
Poor engineers are bridging gaps
Whith rhythm and with rhyme.

That’s why I try to cultivate
A meadow and a house,
In which may all participate:
The Widow and the Mouse.