vrijdag, november 15, 2019
Poëzie

Yet another Troy

you gave to me a wooden horse
no skin of steel, no men inside
a children’s toy that in due course
would lose its magical delight

the day has come to join the force
and to the battlefield we stride
with all we have: the grave remorse
that here we rock where we should ride

why this ridicule, this pitiful defeat?
your gift played its deceitful role
hear, there speaks the dying steed:

‘you had no chance, my little foal
that’s why he sent his finest breed
but not to combat, to console’

I don’t usually write in English – I feel not comfortable with my English proficiency to express myself as I would in my native language. I believe translating literary texts is a craft not to be underestimated. But I still like this little sonnet, that I wrote about ten years ago, when I spoke English on a daily basis at university.

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