Menu
Thursday, July 12, 2018

SOURDINE

And if there is no longer any tenderness,
let us then pretend this tenderness
with blindfold hands and eyes half closed,
lying against each other like a frontier.

A word may then no longer be called a word,
but a mouthful of comforting silence;
and longing no longer the length of an arm,
but further, and more distant than a panoramic view

full of summer birds, music by Mendelssohn, a sfumato
derived from Da Vinci. You will swap your most beautiful pity
for my favourite sorrow; I, carefully taking time
to explore more deeply the fading of your body.

O, if there is then still tenderness,
this tenderness should be dreaded
like a very old wound. So much tenderness
no man could ever stand.
Luuk Gruwez
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS

Delivering Poems Around The World

Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...

1/19/2021 12:49:15 PM # 1.0.0.404