When the North Sea stubbornly breaks on high dunes
And white flakes of spume splatter on the crowns
When the brusque flood batters the black basalt
And the gray mist falls over dike and dune
When at ebb the beach is desolate like a desert
And wet westerly winds howl with venom
Then my land fights, my flat land

When the rain falls on streets, squares, and beds
On roof and steeple of heavenly high churches
Which in this flat land are the only mountains
When clouds dwarf the people underneath
When the days depart in dumb regularity
And fat east wind beats the land even flatter
Then my land, my flat land waits

When the low sky shaves the water
When the low sky teaches us humility
When the low sky is gray as slate
When the low sky is sallow as boulder clay
When the north wind tears the plains in parts
When the north wind steals our breath
Then my land creaks, my flat land

When the Scheldt glitters in southern sun
And every Flemish female flaunts in sun-dress
When the first spider weaves its spring webs
Or fuming fields in July sunlight trembles
When the south wind chortles through the grain
When the south wind jubilates along the track
Then my land, my flat land rejoyces


J.Brel