138th Weekly Poetry Contest honorable mention: Brandmaand / Burning Month (Afrikaans)

by Johann F. Potgieter

Die Appeltrein loop lank nie meer.
Half-begrawe is die ou spoor
nou ‘n fotoplek.
Selfs die bietjies-bietjies fynbos
het na sewe jaar vergeet
toe die vuurvlamme die sade strooi.
 
Geliefde, al wag ek by die stasie
kan die Appeltrein jou nie meer na my heen dra.
Selfs het hy deur die veld geloop,
deur die heide, verby die bloue berge,
sê vir my, Geliefde, sou jy ry?
Hier sal ek nog wag, half-begrawe.
 
Die wit murasies vertel my van jou hart;
en die steene en bokskedels, net so bleek,
wag vir niemand hierlangs die spoor.
Vrot hout en grondkleur yster
lê aanwagtend vir die ysterkoets
wat ons herontmoeting sou beloof.
 
Maar beloftes word gebreek deur tyd;
en Geliefde, dit was nie jóú belofte.
Dit was die belofte van
my desperate hart.
Waarom wag die reen dan nou?
Die veld is bar en dors.
 
 
Translation:
 
The Apple Train stopped running long ago.
Half-burried the old rail
is now just a place for photos.
Even the slight fynbos
forgot after seven long years
when the flames spread the seeds.
 
Beloved, even if I wait at the station
the Apple Train won’t bring you to my side.
Even if it still ran its course through the veld,
through the heather, past the mountains blue,
tell me, Beloved, would you ride?
Here I’ll wait, half-burried.
 
The white ruins tell me of your heart;
and the stones and antelope skulls, just as pale,
wait for no one here by the rails.
Rotten wood and earth-coloured iron
lay in waiting of the iron coach
which would promise our reunion.
 
But time breaks every promise;
and Beloved, the promise wasn’t yours.
It was the promise
of my desperate heart.
For what’s the rain awaiting now?
The veld is barren and parched.

138th Weekly Poetry Contest