een gedicht dat hij bewonderde (110)



I’m not talking about miracles,
nor of mysticism or gnosis, no.
I’m talking about the full and even fuller life
that bursts at the seams, honey-ripening.
About the direct touch between peel and fruit, about the joy
of fitting sensually into your skin.
I’m talking about the plenty of life that goes
through the pores, that bursts and sets off a new fullness
which floods the bloodless
so they put their heads and the scaffold together.

It’s the juice with a distinct taste I’m talking about.
About the momentary and the infinite pleasure of the everyday,
about happy children’s hands squashing their first strawberry
so it drips down to the elbow as they lift it to their mouths.
About the fortune of being alive, resisting the creeping of clichés.

I’m not afraid of conflicts, confrontations,
anger, tears, of ruptures, despair, no,
but of the suffocating breath –
inaudibly and invisibly invading space,
limiting and delimiting it,
poisoning life and what it lives in –
coming out of the topsy-turvy mouth
of those whose heads are stuck in the sand, their feet
still on the delusional floors of the ephemeral
sediments of the atmosphere.


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