Don’t accuse me of being frivolous just
because I have loved without trust
and have departed without tears. For a woman
never comes if she had not beforehand healed,
rising above the wound of that tenderness
that is directed towards future life.
I had to retake myself for a responsibility
for which I unawares have been prepared.
Say softly my name, and I am in the cupboard:
the flowers are once again on the windowsill.
the plates are in the white kitchen rack.
For more of me finds itself inside the sound
than in the youth for which you love me,
my almost boy’s breast, my hair of gold.
(Martinus Nijhoff)
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