Tranendal (taaljaarchallenge)
The tears piggle over my cheeks, once I open the locks... like a sledgehammer. , he strikes.
The rudder is over, the bullet through the church, I write. It is new wine in old barrels, I know. I have to look for my words in response. I fall back to other people's work and I can talk again as Brugman.
“ The water comes on the dike,” my mother said. Shorter by the turn, Grandma was with her waterlanders. I shared love and sorrow with her. I have often shed a tear, while she was always waiting for me, like a rock in the surf. she joked, “the dikes are running over.” To which, as a peasant with
a toothache, I still laughed. “It is a prayer without end (end)”, was a winged statement from her. I bet my life on having this proverb passion of her. My dear grandma, she treated me in manner expressions and sayings. Every week it turned out that she did not have them behind her elbows and the dirty laundry never hung out.
