Gerrit Komrij (The Netherlands, 1944)

[III]

The words flew forth, to the towns
They created form, culture, and kneaded us
Stumbling on and mindful of the past.
They made soul from dust and gold from bronze.

They became slinging arrows for prophets,
For usurers, contracts. Quickshot prayers
For scared sinners. Words turned slogans
And available as small change, fell into disrepute.

The sun shone in the city. Laughter was heard.
A bird whistled. We fell into conversation.
Something pretty about love. No one saw
The brass knuckles, the shards on the gate.

Tranlated by Scott Rollins