In the Breestraat, I stood still,
looked up.
Painted, the text from the Lord.
Everybody could read.
The wish of my father.

Cudgeled, his believe.
Silence in pain, yet he smiled.
‘All words belong to the Lord.
Listen boy, read!’
My father did.

No, I did not know him.
To far he was, to far.
For him, the words were holy.
For me: ‘Please read my boy.’
My mother in between.

I listened on his knee, did I?
Looked up.
He saw my suffer.
What could he do?
The law that was my mother.

In the Breestraat, I stood still,
turned away.
Brute betrayed, my fatherland.
Stopped at once, the reading.
My life wanted that.

Joop Brussee

Oktober 2020