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Besides the poems,
What do I like to do?
Hunting your eyes, of course,
To ward off homesickness.
They are my horse-drawn vehicles
On rutted and foggy paths.
I travel them
In Flemish coldness and spells of rain.
The Garda Lake, the Volga’s bay, sheep breeders, seagulls, agonies
Caused by my longings,
The priest who became a painter,
And on and on…
No luggage,
Except my memories
And your night tales
Of a ring
With one green stone,
In which grasshoppers build
When in your eyes,
I’m in the mood
Is after publishing a book.
I’m usually for silence,
But also I do not actually like it –
I immediately need a soul
To play the piano.
Your eyes are only given me for once.
That’s why I search for them
The way we search in dreams for someone
We will never touch.
But I am calm:
Your eyes are not
A needle in a hay pile,
I shall detect them.
When they notice me at times,
The blue snow melts,
The sea of shine arrives.
And as I listen to this melting,
A song without words,
(Oh, dear Dalida),
I long to live again…