At forty Ladies’ bags become bigger To hold blood-pressure pills and sugars lumps And spectacles To improve the eyesight Making tricky letters More friendly ... In a secret compartment They keep David’s ticket And a prescription against hiccups During eclipses And a candle As fire burns demons Who sneak around at night To cut women’s throats And in the front compartment A will: I only possess “Traces of colour”, (It stuck to my hand when two butterflies sat on it), A sketchbook And a brush Which I donate – Like any lonely woman – To my country. ... At forty Hoarfrost sneaks up on one’s stockings And the heart becomes an empty dish When butterflies leave the house On a Friday night. Where do they go? They settle on the shoulder of a sweet aunt In the eastern side of the capital. Six nights The silent, sad lady Sits on the balcony Waiting for their return. ... At forty A woman says to her neighbour I have a son Who does not like to speak May the Lord give me time Until he says one morning: Mother, go! I am Fine now. ___________ Translated by Kees Nijland