The dough in the pizza pan
Becomes my heart.
And with my hand, my fist,
I strike it and flatten it.
I force it to change,
Plaster it into limp pancake.
With my palm I knead it,
But the pain which should ebb out,
Will not separate and flow away.
It stays inside the dough,
The flattened,
Moulded,
Hand-mangled dough!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
The dough in the pizza pan
Becomes my heart.
And with my hand, my fist,
I strike it and flatten it.
I force it to change,
Plaster it into limp pancake.
With my palm I knead it,
But the pain which should ebb out,
Will not separate and flow away.
It stays inside the dough,
The flattened,
Moulded,
Hand-mangled dough!
just now translated from an Afrikaans poem written quite a few years ago.
DEEG EN OPSTAND !
Die pizza-deeg in die pan
Word my hart-
En met my hand, my vuis,
Slaan en vorm ek dit plat.
Dwing ek dit anders ,
Stryk ek dit oop en willoos.
Met my palm louter ek dit-
Die pyn wat moet uitvloei
Wil nie breek en wegsypel.
Dit bly in die deeg;
Die platgeslaande,
Rondvervormde,
Handgedwonge deeg!
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