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Is running down my back.
Through porticoes,
Over the black
and white
tiled gallery,
around the lighthouse,
above the fish market,
against a cacophonous crowd
in masks –
In front of Ensor’s
‘Carnaval en Flandre’,
I write a letter, letter-less,
to you,
my dear Sun.
I type it with my eyes,
the play of sea muscles
drives my pen.
I stand and stand,
supported by the Belle Epoque
columns –
The middag in Oostende
is too chaotic and yellow.
You’ll never answer my letter –
too letter-less it is,
But I will keep on writing it
With a still shut-eye
On a sheet of shadow –