THE WORLD IS BUT A PLAYHOUSE STAGE / MEN ACT A ROLE AND DRAWS ITS WAGE' (JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL) Poem by Peter Verhelst

Someone throws a rose onto the stage

but it is not the rose or the hand that throws it,
nor even the throwing, but the falling,
which is not the falling on a hollow, wooden floor

but the jerk of your shoulder, look at me, someone,
anyone, who for the first, that first look.
While someone takes off his trousers for the first time in a new house,
while someone pulls a dress over her head
and they don't look at each other yet, before that jerk of the shoulder.

Someone who lies down on the floor and closes their eyes,
the one
who cautiously lies down beside them,

which is not the lying on the floor,
but the falling, left arm behind the head,
quivering eyelids, breath catching, half-open mouth,
head falling to one side in that room with the wooden floor
where we once, for the first, you are now lying on your side
with open eyes.

A vase that falls.

Shards rise from the puddle and fuse,
water is drawn out of the wood,
a rose arcs from the floor back into the vase.