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Now on a silent summer night
Caught me the melancholy.


I was walking, wandering,
Wondering 'where am I going'
On an empty dusty road
That my legs solidly followed.


Through the shaky street lamps' light,
Just one single word was brought out
By the blackguard of an endless see
Intruded from the deepest embassy.


'Élet', that was the foreign word,
Whose meaning ensnared the world:
La vie, Leben or any Life or birth,
Still just concepts holding little worth.


'Élet' I echoed by laughing,
And passed the road embarrassing
Myself by thinking of that notion
Which had never given me emotion.


A word which filled me with filthy void,
And made me unable to avoid
Falling into a senseless sorrow,
Lowering me lower and more low.


I got to be hardly stressed;
Why this mysterious word pressed
On me so cruelly the wrong,
Making me depressed a life time along.


Even if I should have cried for resort,
I was still walking sine a sort
In my mind that's not a garden of Eden,
Or just I was, by myself, mistaken.


In some or other fairy way,
My road was riding further away;
Just as in Don Quixote's battle of glory,
I was walking against Melancholy.
My very first English poem, written in 2013, Algeria.
A Yorks Jun 2019
Is daar a woord
Wat ek kan gebruik,
Wat beteken wat ek bedoel,
As die woorde in my eie taal
Nie meer volstaan nie?

Wat sê 'n mens,
As sy moedertaal
Nie meer die taal
Van sy siel is nie?

Die frases pas nie reg
In my uitheemse mond nie,
Die vokale klink nou vreemd,
En die konsonante is ook.

Die werkwoorde werk nie,
Die naamwoorde benoem niks,
Die vrugtelose adjektiewe
se Beskrywinge is nikswerd.

Ek's 'n kind van die wêreld,
En my taal is 'n moeder
Wat my lankgelede verlaat het.
Sy't geen liefde vir my nie,
Net 'n onbekende tussen tale.

— The End —