Poem
Ed Leeflang
THE SANDERLING
The sea can\'t help it,her passion is like labour;
he backs off from her outbursts,
pursues her second thoughts.
He leaves of his existence
the fleeting cuneiform,
in crooked running lines,
nearly quatrains.
And by her forthright mopping
they are wiped out.
All traces of his scampering
must disappear, as if his instinct
to live on, unemphatically
got it wrong.
De zee kan het niet helpen,
De zee kan het niet helpen,
in weeën komt haar drift;
voor haar opwelling wijkt hij,
haar bedenking beent hij na.
Van zijn bestaan verschijnt
het vluchtig spijkerschrift,
in scheve aanloopregels,
bijna kwatrijnen.
En door haar plompverloren dweilen
worden zij weggewist.
leder spoor van zijn gedribbel
moet verdwijnen, of hij zich in
de drang om voort te leven
zonder nadruk had vergist.
in weeën komt haar drift;
voor haar opwelling wijkt hij,
haar bedenking beent hij na.
Van zijn bestaan verschijnt
het vluchtig spijkerschrift,
in scheve aanloopregels,
bijna kwatrijnen.
En door haar plompverloren dweilen
worden zij weggewist.
leder spoor van zijn gedribbel
moet verdwijnen, of hij zich in
de drang om voort te leven
zonder nadruk had vergist.
Poems
Poems of Ed Leeflang
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THE SANDERLING
The sea can\'t help it,her passion is like labour;
he backs off from her outbursts,
pursues her second thoughts.
He leaves of his existence
the fleeting cuneiform,
in crooked running lines,
nearly quatrains.
And by her forthright mopping
they are wiped out.
All traces of his scampering
must disappear, as if his instinct
to live on, unemphatically
got it wrong.
THE SANDERLING
The sea can\'t help it,her passion is like labour;
he backs off from her outbursts,
pursues her second thoughts.
He leaves of his existence
the fleeting cuneiform,
in crooked running lines,
nearly quatrains.
And by her forthright mopping
they are wiped out.
All traces of his scampering
must disappear, as if his instinct
to live on, unemphatically
got it wrong.
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