From Brugges to Ghent

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...