Somewhere Poem by Mark Boog

Somewhere, one of these days, arose in perhaps a far land
the steamroller driver who is now searching for
the steamroller in the corner of this room,

and for a while the wrecker's been awake,
although on a heavy, iron chain in front of our window
the wrecking ball hangs still, gleaming in the late summer sun.

From all directions the workers advance,
as if there were a party here, a census, an annual fair,
leaving traces of work done, of odd jobs carried out.

That holy silence, and within,
unfolding the silence to its very greatest,
the thin birds, and that dim light, quivering with age.

Translation: 2004, Willem Groenewegen