Today is the day of one sense,
the sense of hearing, and he likes to listen to the heartbeat
of the crested salamander,
the pumping of the birch sap,
the rustling of a lapwing,
the whistle of a nightingale
for the oldest of the fens.
Where is the cold, mechanical sound
of the chainsaw?
What he likes to see is a selection of photographs.
What he likes to read are poems.
Maybe he should agree to be
more or less inspired by it.
Where is the shrill, meager sound
of the chainsaw?
He would have liked to meet all the people
from the Vennestraat in person.
It does take its course.
He likes to discuss
to puzzle something together,
to gather some ideas,
with Fingerspritzengefühl,
to reconsider everything once again,
and everything soon, and with regards.
Where is the flashy, amical sound
of the chainsaw?
Sometimes he rather fails to keep up,
but he never gets caught with his pants down.
He does his best to give everything its place,
seeks for balance,
and thinks that when it comes to it,
it is completely in itself,
and that you can get it out of it like that.
Where is the fresh, maximal sound
of the chainsaw?
Joris Iven, 2014