I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
My poems have drowned in its streets.
My songs about the town
Lie stock-still in its ways.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
Its birds peck at my brow.
Church bells drown my cries
And echo across lost days.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
Whatever happened to me?
What was I thinking about
To believe I could make roots here?
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
The translator is coming for me.
He’ll tell me to head home
Back to the cell of my room.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
The yellow train awaits me.
She’ll dart me down to Schipol
To perch on my favourite stool.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
Its hotel rooms are starless.
They are full of dreadful maids
And the government’s inspectors.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
Its market’s fruit is rotting.
Drains full of scraps of news
And the bones of flat musicians.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
Its daughters do nothing for me.
They are hooked up with the city’s poets
And their lingerie’s too complex.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
There were good times and they’ve passed.
There were days we danced by the canals
But even they aren’t endless.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
Its lights became red and dangerous.
Its intellectual garrets are small
And its writers are even smaller.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
I’ll leave it to local drunks.
They can drink their fill for me
Since you know I’ve supped enough.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
I hate to break its heart.
I learnt to see its beauty
But I loved it to destruction.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
Let some other poet touch its map.
The wind just laughed in my face
As I leapt into the dark.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
My luggage is full of pain.
I need to take care of the rest of my life
To seek beds in different towns.
I won’t dream in Zwolle again,
I’ve crouched too long on its hill.
My fingers have all turned blue
In the swollen pursuit of what’s past.
