Gerrit Achterberg


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In this room I'm finally at home.
Never again shall I write a verse that tears
my life apart in order to write it.
If I am a poet, then it's just a mistake.

I read the new book. The heater rustles.
Gertrude is ironing a shirt.
I only need to look up from a page
to realize the happiness which lives here.

This is how it will last through the years.
We'll soon have a child and in our old age
my pension will care for all our needs.
We needn't become bitter prematurely.

Moreover, we live in peace with the neighbors.
One is called Jones, the other Rutledge.

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Gerrit Achterberg