Jan De Raeymaeker Biography

Don't talk of graves at your tender age

Not until your rickety rack is a trembling wreck
Till your white-film eyes are all but blind
...

He's sitting awkwardly, set aside
Dirty hands holding one stained leg
Grey beard grown to a point
Wide-brimmed flat-cap anointing his head
...

So old these grey bones; so old, and so alone
Shrugging loose their soiled coat

To dip the salt caress, its wet brush
...

In the thrall of tiredness
This hoeboy glowers out his ought ait

A blunted oik forking the topsoil
...

Will you, Lunacy, pledge
To take me ere the end
Bend my final days to wonder
Bereft of reason's clarity
...