Sometimes I wanted to omit the words and the
Resulting loss, my own hand over my own head
And slowly the lock of hair out of my eyes or over my
Sleep and then along warm cheeks, a cool hand

But not his, where is he hiding then
Under my bed on the dusty floor or between the
Rustling skirts in my closet or any other city
Than my own that he visited

And why was I not going along? i deliberately leave gaps
Falling between which words disappear and I, myself
Almost as well, the rope hangs loose, the scarlet cord has
Disappeared and is recovered again

Around his neck, that I love him is almost a sin
For life, just a moment and the hand falls back on
The sheets and strokes her hair smooth, the head overfull
Moreover, I always travel alone

as a tightrope dancer, vertaling van dichter Helle van Aardeberg
van mijn gedicht Als een koorddanser (uit de bundel De hand
de beweging laten maken, januari 2012)