(in memory of Frans B. who died with his village)
He was thinking too much of the decay of
his village, the crawling of the mosses on
walls, houses without steps.
Also the chamber of his heart dried out.
The future yawned to him as a deep pit.
He couldn’t strike the fear away
as a thermometer.
Where did his poor pigeons had to spread their wings?
He knew not where the sun rose,
sprinkled golden grains of corn,
Took his cap off neatly
before he hung himself.
Rather would he tie a rope
to the heavens before the ground under his
feet sank away.
The aspen were silent for a moment,
the crops swallowed.
The mediator came with his accompanying social plan
End of an ongoing case
From the Village Poet of DOEL:
Doelloos / Aimless