Plataan herhinder ons aan verlede sonde,
al langs die laning en die parkie waar die kinders speel.
Op die grasberk was 'n houtslang waarop ons sou klim
en sou reis na die bowe son.
Vergaan die lag-lag stappies na die monde
van die Gamtoos en die Kabeljous
waar ons die kleinste pampoentjieskulp loop soek
en die tyd bemaan wat stilte vashou.
Dan die kranse en die amberboom se spitssaad
wat wil maak of hy plataan is maar geen nostalgie wil bloei.
G'n blom, g'n waterstroom. G'n niks.
Ek verlang na jou, my jongheid.
Translation:
The sycamore reminds us of our bygone sin,
all along the lane and playpark where the children run.
Time consumed the old wooden snake on which we clambered
and travelled on to the sun.
The laugh-laugh journeys to the river mouths
of the Gamtoos and the Kabeljous are gone,
where we searched for the smallest urchin shell
and mourned the hours gripping silence.
Then the cliffs and the sweetgum’s spiky seed
which pretends to be the sycamore but won’t spill it’s nostalgia.
No flowers, no river stream. No nothing.
I pine for you, my youth.
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