Snaaks genoeg die koue lug

herinner my aan my warm Afrika huis.

Ma roer die Matabela pap,

ek dik kombers aan Shosho se rug,

Pa kruip leesend weg in sy studeerkamer.

My hart verlang na berge,

droë bosveld en bos geluide.

Rooi grond en geel gras.

Die stof van jou harde aarde nou

net `n klein wolkie in my long.

The Finnish landscape in Winter

with ploughed acres, piled silage is like

walking through a Kiefer painting.

Silt, mud, and stick clung to feet

from barren fields with hay comb-overs.

Your art can parade words

of great minds Kierkegaard, Hegel, and Heidegger,

and force it down throats.

Words not originated and cemented within you;

not first born from your tongue is senseless.

Wooden boxes on hills.

Inside the wooden boxes live wooden people.

Wooden boxes in fields.

Wooden cuckoo clocks without pendulums and birds.

Wooden phone booths without phone or dial.