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Niks is sekerder
as ek in jou,
as ek van jou.
In jou vleis,
jou beenmurg en milt
hou jy my vas
en ek keer terug
met uitgegroeide hande
en ou versoolde voete
om dit wat eens een was
in my drome op te roep.

Maar jy slaap stil,
jou een oog toe.
Tyd skeur ons
in twee,
in drie of vier.

Niks is sekerder
as ek en jy
wat stadigaan vervaag
tot skaduwees.

Nothing is more certain
than me in you
than me from you.
In your flesh,
your bone-marrow and spleen
you hold me tight
and I return
with grown-out hands
and old re-treaded feet
to recall in my dreams
that which used to be one.

But you sleep quietly,
your one eye closed.
Time tear us
into two,
into three or four.

Nothing is more certain
than you and me
slowly dimming
into shadows.