Schetsen, Eerste bundel

A quiet evening in Amsterdam finds the narrator clutching three freshly cut narcissus, their alabaster crowns shimmering against the fading purple light over Willemspark. The flowers seem almost otherworldly, their stems trembling as the narrator steps from the warm glow of a shared dinner into the cool twilight. The city’s shadows stretch long, and the delicate blossoms become a fragile focal point amid the soft hum of the street.

Boarding a tram, the journey turns uneasy when a rough‑looking man with a heavy cigar leans in, his smoky breath clouding the pristine petals. The narrator’s brief surge of hostility reflects a clash between the pure, golden hearts of the flowers and the gritty reality of passing strangers. As the tram weaves through bustling squares and dimly lit avenues, the narcissus remain a solitary beacon, drawing curious glances while the narrator guards them like a secret, pondering the strange beauty they bring to an otherwise ordinary night.