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165th Weekly Poetry Contest honorable mention: Chirurgie / Surgery (Afrikaans)

by Johann F. Potgieter

Kom ons hou begravnis vir jou hart,
uiteindelik dood na jou lydinge en smart.
‘n Handvol grond, ‘n bos wit lelies,
bangheid, en die bloedsmaak in my mond.
Was dit siekte? Was dit moord?
Waarvandaan kom hierdie dood?
Was ekstase nie genoeg om die duister te vermy nie,
of die wandel in die Kaapse berg se eggokranse?
Daar’s ‘n kanker in jou kamers wat nou vrot,
en ‘n bitterheid, ‘n kwaad, die duiwel se genot.
Ek hou die baksteen in my keel terug
en probeer, vergeefs, vergeet.

Translation:

Come, let’s inter your heart,
dead, finally, after all your sufferings and art.
A handful earth, white lilies in a bunch,
fear, and the taste of blood around my mouth.
Was it sickness? Was it murder?
From where does this death wander?
Wasn’t ecstasy enough to keep away the dark,
or the trek along the Cape mountains’ echoes.
There’s a cancer in your chambers, rotting,
and a bitterness, an anger, the devil sits plotting.
I’m holding back the brick inside my throat
and I try, in vain, to wipe it from my reveries.

165th Weekly Poetry Contest