In memoriam Simon Wiesenthal
About shiny apples rotten from
within, seldom coming from a
sturdy branch, caught in sullied
hands – about these I wished to write.
But outside the train my attention
is constantly captured by trees whose
leaves are fading, crêpe-paper
roses framing meadows and further on
a hole fresh dug, a tree stretched out
beside it, waiting to be planted.
Translation: John Irons
© Henk van Zuiden