The more silent the landscape
the more intense all must be:
a hug in a desert, a war
certainly means more in silence.
No one hears you in traffic noise
and who cares about a battle
with the world dying anyway,
and we’re alone now on the beach.
One touch under all these old stars,
why can’t this moment be some more
than an encounter of bodies
like so many before us had.
The silence hasn’t made us sacred,
our moves are ancient as the world,
but it feels as if we’re the first
as no sound but the sea’s is here.
I watch the Tour de France for the landscape.
The hills, the mountains, the castles go by.
After a while I wonder about why
saddle soreness doesn’t seem to exist
for those skinny little fellows in bright
coloured lycra. I watch them race in spite
of distance and heat, they move like robots.
Outside, the old man’s cycling up the dune,
same speed as he’s always done, the tune
he whistles says he is not tired yet.
He needs no yellow sweater to feel good,
he only cycles to get where he should,
and when he’s home, the reward kiss he’ll get
is always from his wife. I wonder who
is better off: the runners like they do
or him, the old man on his daily round?