the fields glide lush into the horizon
an open air storeroom
full of fattened stalks
no animal nor farmer around
silence twirls through an empty sky
a larder beetle crawls with open elytra
in pursuit of our dreams of flight
and cuts and gorges
underneath sputters
an inferno
of injected dung
to the melody of
Splendid Yield
this is the land of Botox
smoothed out
made uniform
anonymised
meadows clumped together
sunbathing topless at a costa
on import grass covers
we float up to date
no sense of season nor time
with frogs at nightfall
like hoarse bards, almost exotics
croaking the spell
of Scheherazade
as long as necessary
Translation: Trevor Scarse
Botokslân
it lân glydt glei de fierte yn
in iepen loftloads
fol fetweide snilen
bist noch boer te sjen
stilte tysket troch in lege himel
in spektor krûpt mei útklapte lidden
ús dream fan fleanen achternei
en meant en fret
ûnderhûds systeret
in ynferno
fan ynjektearre jarre
op it mantra fan
Poerbêste Bringst
dit is botokslân
egalisearre
uniformearre
anonimisearre
greiden liif oan liif
bakke topless oan in costa
op ymport gersmatsjes
sweve wy up to date
gjin weet fan oere en tiid
mei tsjin ‘e nacht de kikkerts
as heaze barden, eksoaten al hast
kweakje sy de betsjoening
fan Sheherazade
sa lang as it moat
© Syds Wiersma
Lân sûnder ljurk (Hispel, 2019)