Wy sitte op ‘e pier en swije, mar
ús eagen geane fier de see op, as kobben
hechtsje wy ús oan de passaziersboat.
Kinst it eilân lizzen sjen, twa oerkes
farren, weagjend efter it besleine rút.
Wy ite wat by de Sinees, dyt syn
karakters yn it havenwetter spegelet,
prate nei oer juster op it eilân, dêr’t
wy by de fjoertoer ieten, efter glês.
Fûgels dreaunen op ‘e wyn en hongen
as kweajonges oan it skip dat lytser
waard: fan dêr út wie it lân te sjen,
dizze haven koe men suver rikke.
Lit ús de tafel nimme mei ro útsicht
op it wetter, lit ús each yn each
de fisk ite, wyn as wetter drinke,
mar wysels moai efter glês wannear’t
de dei ferdwynt mei ‘t ôfgeand tij.
As skippen weisinke yn it tjuster,
ha wy noch ús spegelbyld, wy oan ‘e
mul ta yn ‘ e haven, alles farrend.
We’re sitting on the jetty and we’re silent, but
our eyes go far out to sea, like gulls
we cling to the passenger ferry.
You can see the island, two hours of
sailing, pitching and rolling behind the foggy window.
That’s the time you are on currents
of inbalance - the horizon offers no support,
and even the sun cannot be relied on.
We have a bite to eat at the Chinese restaurant
that mirrors its characters in the harbour pool,
we talk about yesterday, on the island, where
we had dinner near the lighthouse, behind the windows.
Birds were floating on the wind and were hanging
- like rebellious schoolboys - off the ship, that became smaller,
from there you could see land,
this harbour almost within arm’s reach.
Let’s take the table with the spacious view
of the water, let’s see eye to eye
and have the fish, drink wine like water,
but ourselves, pretty behind glass, when
the day fades out with the sinking tide.
When ships sink into darkness,
there’s still our image in the glass, us,
up to our waist in the harbour, all afloat.