Chartres

Sometimes, spring and mortality in the heart,

I see myself walking again in that one May,

this one afternoon of blossoms and soft rain,

descending again the long Rue Saint-Brice

between the cathedral and Le Coudray,

as far as the swelling Eure and the monument,

its fading moments of a great war,

that an undercurrent of past names forms,

which gradually leads through to another depth,

where the lower town with her heavy slabs,

chestnut trees and forever empty cafés

hangs lost on the algae-covered stairs.

Everywhere, behind the closed eyes,

the wet sheaves of grain rise from death.

Slowly, the evening grows dark in him.

Original text in Dutch by Albert Hagenaars

From: Curfew, WEL, 2000.

Translation by Catherine East