First they keep you tight, then let you lose and soon come the days to walk alone, leaving the garden to go behind the hedge. So, this mythical magical land is a wild, barren and forbidden zone between ours and the village behind. Along the hollow road, trains run coal day and night from mines ‘Prins Hendrik’ to ‘Koningin Emma’. You can flatten a nail on the rail as a train comes by; think off trying bolder bolts and then dream of full speed collisions with your nearby bed, hoping to wake up in time at night. But now, half a century later, the mines are closed, rumor harbors atom bombs underground; while the rail road is a bicycle path; vegetables turned into flowers as decoration replaced everyday survival, and in the end dogs followed upon kids.
Yet, here and there, still lay buried black traces of Carboniferous forests fallen from trainloads; and even the splitting meeting point serves today, though with a log, a sure replica, and with trees, grown at least ten times taller, shall I not shrink further in my imagination.