falls like dark hair across a shoulder,
like the poplars that sway slightly
as a peewit cries its mournful cry
and I walk alone along the Lys.
Winter only now merges into spring.
The eel fishers sit for hours
under their black umbrellas with
half-full buckets at their sides.
Their patience inspires my reveries.
The gray skies of Flanders match
my mood. Here there are no streets
filled with cars and busses, no markets
or airplanes, no desire or longing,
no love, fulfilled or otherwise.
There is no hunger, no sun, no
night, no yesterday or tomorrow.
There is only the ever-present mist,
the grass, a plowed field, and a few trees.
There is the damp air as it enters
your lungs and a cool puff of mist
as it leaves. Nothing more is necessary