Poetry

[after N.P. Van Wyk Louw]
 
On the white beach I pick up a kite
where yellow-gold it trembles in the wind
and I brush the sand off and it wants to gallop,
jerks into the sky while I am standing still
and it flies as only a kite can
while the line in my fingers are spanning
as it climbs still higher against a storm wind
while specks of sand blow against me, are blinding me.
It raises quickly, almost flies heaven high
where suddenly it flutters, hangs streaming,
as if it already are catching the radial winds,
are out of my sight
when it jerks loose and unfolds the stars,
are flying a path right through the universe
 
 
[Reference: Die beiteltjie (The chisel) by N.P. van Wyk Louw.]