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I worked, I labour

in clay and inside

I gave and I asked

zealous loving

of autumns full of pain

of which bronze will now speak

sometimes coarse sometimes fine

left in the past

to start anew

from wintry spring

death on the linen

where the spring did begin

the language of shapes

the tale of the struggle

for the summer of tomorrow

where the heart shall be relieved

also the game of the colours

and the whims of poetry

my desire in smells

to mystery and harmony

                                                                                                                        turnhout, 18 july 2002   francien maas