You stand, weary of stirring, under
the twirling of the spar line in the night.
The lamplight fanning out in flat flame
as you bend over, reins in your bright fabric.
You smite your fist, protesting with a wink
this light labor of the oar and fishing line.
I make as if to lend a hand, but you wave it away,
Earnest philosopher, choosing instead this sad September song.
De stêd wierre grize strjitten, sûker
twirren oan ’e spoarline, in nacht.
Yn ’e lampebol fan fiere flat: man
wachtsjend foar it reinich bytfabryk.
Ik smiet de fyts oan ’e kant, wankel
en werkende in lûd út in oar ferline.
Hy joech my de hân, sei dat hy it wie:
earste pianospiler, sad septembersong.
— Albertina Soepboer
The prompt was to choose a photograph, then a poem in a foreign language and to write a poem of your own according to what you think it means, influenced by the photograph as well. I chose a poem in Frisan, (the Netherlands) my grandfather’s native language.