Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve

 

It is not the march of the calendar

that heralds a new birth

it is the iced sounds

of the carillon

 

not the drone of a heavy truck

but its soft clinking in the glass cabinet

not the light that turns the night down

but the candle that lights up the dark

 

not the neck hairs of the lonely

donkey, but their misting

in the twilight and the child

that strokes it

 

it is the snowflake touching

the water, the smell of pines in a city

the opened door of the closed house

the call of bells in the silent night

 

 

(translated by Hannie Rouweler)