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)