Of all rhythms he found day and night Poem by Cees Nooteboom

20

Of all rhythms he found day and night
the most beautiful. One, two, and thank God
no three. That only came later, when
everything was over, a dark number

disguised as a nought. How does a work of art
arise? When does a motet begin,
a poem, a light that seems to have no origin?
Who thinks of a first line before thinking?

From a morass of reflections, a miry
struggle between the past and an invented present,
a single visible moment arises
in which time no longer measures

the sinking.