AMSTERDAM'S RIVER

The city entering a November night

has only Amsterdam’s river.

Suddenly

the fruit of my orange tree at home

sways in autumn wind.

Useless to close the window,

useless to reverse the river’s current,

useless that the pearl-studded sun is rising.

Pigeons fly off like shattered iron,

the street without boys suddenly seems vast and empty.

After autumn’s rain

snails all over the roof.

—My country

on Amsterdam’s river sails slowly by.