Rural Silence

Rural Silence

How calm the polder plains.
Birds shuffle at their leisure,
Sky untroubled, though smoke trails rise.

Abandoned buildings, it would seem.
Marforio—what unearthly peace.
Passion extinguished, ardor quenched.

Winter cold settles on the land;
The dour populace counts birds:
Ten in the air, none in the hand.

Ticked and tallied on bird forms,
For the national census—
Or shall we call Apeldoorn?

The head nurse has had enough
(The pharmacist sister too).

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