It\'s a land at the golden dust borders .
That stretches out and plays the unfaithful.
It belongs to no one other than the cycle
of seasons that are always the same ...
Offering oneself languidly to the marshy arms
of rivers that reavel so little ...
From the top of their throne ,eagles and lions crowned
with fadded lilies and laurels ,their stone eyes ,weeding
for so many lost kingdoms ...
We have no glory other than having always survived
so insignificant and brilliant ...
I am a child of an watercolor painting made of rain lace
Is my destiny merely the marriage of misty days
between the towers from Brugges to ghent ?
But in this gray I add a touch of Italian blue...
I feel like Lorenzo il magnifico !
One day the war will end .
The greats ones of this world will decide
for the fate of the dwarfs .
But we will sing and dance around the venison !
The landsknechts have driven out the French !
Let us drink to our ally the king of England !
Will it still be the case next year ?
Jan ,son of Marieke will return from distant islands
poor in pennies but scented with spices
and light tobacco !
Puffing on his pipe ,he will tell his children
about the calm far eastern mornings ,
treasures lost for ever and the black earth
of the great volcano where bodies
ravaged by fever, rest in quest of eternity...
So far from the gates of Brugges and Ghent .
I ,who know only the softness of summer fields
and the bells that salute those
in quest of redemption ...
I ,who know nothing of adventure
except the pastel slattered on my easel .
These gentle formeless storms
full of compassion for the canvas frozen
in a museum ...
Circle around the funeral candelabras ,
you merry drunkers ,
mocking the infant of Spain !
I would like to fall asleep for another life
in the belly of these dishevelled dunes
running like ephemeral lights...
Suddenly becoming docile and submit
between the walls of Brugges and ghent...