top of page



'It is well,' you whisper into the rustling of the trees, tenderly flattening their rust-brown leaves on your resting place. I sand the moss of the letters that anchor your name against the fleetingness of our existence. I polish the numbers that remind me how long it has been since you went from me.

My hands search each other. 'You must let me go,' you repeat endlessly in my ears. Salty moisture creeps through the furrows of my cheeks. I wipe it off, look around and see the same struggle for many a stone. For a moment, I am not alone.

Luc Vos

Jos Lavers


bottom of page