在这个世界上我留着
为了做你的百合花，玛丽
它们比小羊的脚爪更害羞
并惧怕每一次风暴

当我想睡去的时候
青草可以闭上我的眼睛
并对着那上面的你
再见，再见

柔软而安慰的雨洗去你脸上的光辉
明天的醒来会很美
在棺材那么黑的天空下
躺着。

每当我们的桑树开花
它们的气味总是飘飞起来
飘进我的窗口……
尤其在夜晚和雨后。

那些树就在拐弯的街角
离这儿只有几分钟的路。
夏天当我跑到
它们悬起的树梢下
吵闹的黑鸟已经摘去了
幽暗的果实。

当我站在那些树下并吮吸
它们丰富的气味
四周的生命仿佛突然塌下
一种奇异而奢侈的感觉
如同被女人的手所触摸

当那些轻轻的吻
在你额头干涸之前
你弯着腰去喝
水晶清明的水
从来没人怀疑
你是否将接触那些嘴唇

某些时刻
不耐烦的血
从内部模铸你的躯体
比雕塑家的塑泥上
跑动着的手指更迅速

也许你会将她
年轻的头发放在手掌里
让它们掠过双肩
就像打开的鸟翅
你将沉重地追逐它们
那儿，
在你眼前
并且在空气之下的深处
是那倾斜的，恐怖的
和甜蜜的空虚
渗透着点点滴滴的光。

在临终前的最后几秒
母亲的脸转向我们
哽咽而沙哑地说
“什么都没有。”
然后她的嘴唇默默地永恒地闭上。

她那被亲吻过一百次的玫瑰花圈
落到怎样的深渊？
她所有的祈祷
和年轻时唱过的悄悄的歌
飘到哪儿去了呢？
那些小小的事情引起的恐惧和忧郁
又到哪儿去了呢？
一切罪孽都有清晰的定义
对的或错的
并且那些对的和别的一样好！

在短短的一刹那
当我们蹦跳着离开土地的脚
又掉落下来
她经历了怎样的黑暗？

我静静地来到阳台
并从母亲的破损的椅子
往上看
向那高处的某种阴郁。
在我们漫长的一生中
它们一直从窗口瞪视我们
不提任何要求，
也不向我们索取任何东西。
随你怎么想
它们有一种无法形容的美。

那么我们尝试着泯灭它们
用常青藤的种子，
玫瑰花的种子，
词和眼泪！

并且最后我们想要撕开
它们的发光的锁
用我们最后一次呼吸
那是，（甚至在我们强有力的喉咙里）
最弱的。

她像细瓷花瓶中的鲜花一样美丽，
我的祖国、我的故乡；
她像细瓷花瓶中的鲜花一样美丽，
又像你刚刚切开的、
香甜可口的面包瓤。

尽管你一百次地感到失望和沮丧，
你还是回到了祖国的怀抱；
尽管你一百次地感到失望和沮丧，
你还是回到了富饶、美丽的故乡，
回到像采石场上的春天一样贫穷的故乡。

她像细瓷花瓶中的鲜花一样美丽，
她也像自身的过失那么深沉，
她便是我们无法忘记的祖国！
当生命的最后一刻来临，
我们将长眠在她那苦涩的泥土之中。

宁静的流水
仍然在秋日的小河中歌唱，
歌声仍然像古里斯琴一样清越。
可是这歌声能否久长？

战争呀，我们仍然在追求爱情和春光，
仍然漫步在洁净的田野上，
把你破碎了的可怖的战袍踩在脚下。
可是我们的追求能否久长？

路边，一辆辆坦克仍然在用它们
没有了脑髓的钢铁的颅骨吓唬着行人，
它，比黑夜还要黑的战争，
仍然在用它的发源地威胁着世人。

母亲喜悦地铺开襁褓，
坚信必有光明的来朝。
去吻她的手吧，但首先
吻哪一只手，哪一只？

先吻那只轻轻地挤着乳头的手，
还是那只抱着婴儿的手？
爱情和忠贞不是在这里
又能到哪里去寻求？

嗬，这可真是催人泪下——
母亲的需求是那样的少，
只要在荆棘丛中种上少许庄稼，
她们就心满意足！

她们只求有一点儿宁静、温暖和五月的春光，
要知道摇篮的吱嘎声和朴素的催眠曲，
还有那蜜蜂和蜂房
远远胜过刺刀和枪弹。

不管你怎样威吓我们，
妻子、小鸟和儿童决不会任你蹂躏！
啊，战争，但愿你华美的盔甲，
永远布满铁锈的斑痕！

Sometimes
when she would talk about herself
my mother would say:
My life was sad and quiet,
I always walked on tip-toe.
But if I got a little angry
and stamped my foot
the cups, which had been my mother's,
would tinkle on the dresser
and make me laugh.

At the moment of my birth, so I am told,
a butterfly flew in by the window
and settled on my mother's bed,
but that same moment a dog howled in the yard.
My mother thought
it a bad omen.

My life of course has not been quite
as peaceful as hers.
But even when I gaze upon our present days
with wistfulness
as if at empty picture frames
and all I see is a dusty wall,
still it has been so beautiful.

There are many moments
I cannot forget,
moments like radiant flowers
in all possible colours and hues,
evenings filled with fragrance
like purple grapes
hidden in the leaves of darkness.

With passion I read poetry
and loved music
and blundered, ever surprised,
from beauty to beauty.
But when I first saw
the picture of a woman nude
I began to believe in miracles.

My life unrolled swiftly.
It was too short
for my vast longings,
which had no bounds.
Before I knew it
my life's end was drawing near.

Death soon will kick open my door
and enter.
With startled terror I'll catch my breath
and forget to breathe again.

May I not be denied the time
once more to kiss the hands
of the one who patiently and in step with me
walked on and on and on
and who loved most of all.

If you're at your wits' end concerning love
try falling in love again —
say, with the Queen of England.
Why not!
Her features are on every postage stamp
of that ancient kingdom.
But if you were to ask her
for a date in Hyde Park
you can bet that
you'd wait in vain.

If you've any sense at all
you'll wisely tell yourself:
Why of course, I know:
it's raining in Hyde Park today.

When he was in England
my son bought me in London's Piccadilly
an elegant umbrella.
Whenever necessary
I now have above my head
my own small sky
which may be black
but in its tensioned wire spokes
God's mercy may be flowing like
an electric current.

I open my umbrella even when it's not raining,
as a canopy
over the volume of Shakespeare's sonnets
I carry with me in my pocket.

But there are moments when I am frightened
even by the sparkling bouquet of the universe.
Outstripping its beauty
it threatens us with its infinity
and that is all too similar
to the sleep of death.
It also threatens us with the void and frostiness
of its thousands of stars
which at night delude us
with their gleam.

The one we have named Venus
is downright terrifying.
Its rocks are still on the boil
and like gigantic waves
mountains are rising up
and burning sulphur falls.

We always ask where hell is.
It is there!

But what use is a fragile umbrella
against the universe?
Besides, I don't even carry it.
I have enough of a job
to walk along
clinging close to the ground
as a nocturnal moth in daytime
to the coarse bark of a tree.

All my life I have sought the paradise
that used to be here,
whose traces I have found
only on women's lips
and in the curves of their skin
when it is warm with love.

All my life I have longed
for freedom.
At last I've discovered the door
that leads to it.
It is death.

Now that I'm old
some charming woman's face
will sometimes waft between my lashes
and her smile will stir my blood.

Shyly I turn my head
and remember the Queen of England,
whose features are on every postage stamp
of that ancient kingdom.
God save the Queen!

Oh yes, I know quite well:
it's raining in Hyde Park today.

All night rain lashed the windows.
I couldn't go to sleep.
So I switched on the light
and wrote a letter.

If love could fly,
as of course it can't,
and didn't so often stay close to the ground,
it would be delightful to be enveloped
in its breeze.

But like infuriated bees
jealous kisses swarm down upon
the sweetness of the female body
and an impatient hand grasps
whatever it can reach,
and desire does not flag.
Even death might be without terror
at the moment of exultation.

But who has ever calculated
how much love goes
into one pair of open arms!

Letters to women
I always sent by pigeon post.
My conscience is clear.
I never entrusted them to sparrowhawks
or goshawks.

Under my pen the verses dance no longer
and like a tear in the corner of an eye
the word hangs back.
And all my life, at its end,
is now only a fast journey on a train:

I'm standing by the window of the carriage
and day after day
speeds back into yesterday
to join the black mists of sorrow.
At times I helplessly catch hold
of the emergency brake.

Perhaps I shall once more catch sight
of a woman's smile,
trapped like a torn-off flower
on the lashes of her eyes.
Perhaps I may still be allowed
to send those eyes at least one kiss
before they're lost to me in the dark.

Perhaps once more I shall even see
a slender ankle
chiselled like a gem
out of warm tenderness,
so that I might once more
half choke with longing.

How much is there that man must leave behind
as the train inexorably approaches
Lethe Station
with its plantations of shimmering asphodels
amidst whose perfume everything is forgotten.
Including human love.

That is the final stop:
the train goes no further.

Life taught me long ago
that music and poetry
are the most beautiful things on earth
that life can give us.
Except for love, of course.

In an old textbook
published by the Imperial Printing House
in the year of Vrchlický's death
I looked up the section on poetics
and poetic ornament.

Then I placed a rose in a tumbler,
lit a candle
and started to write my first verses.

Flare up, flame of words,
and soar,
even if my fingers get burned!

A startling metaphor is worth more
than a ring on one's finger.
But not even Puchmajer's Rhyming Dictionary
was any use to me.

In vain I snatched for ideas
and fiercely closed my eyes
in order to hear that first magic line.
But in the dark, instead of words,
I saw a woman's smile and
wind-blown hair.

That has been my destiny.
And I've been staggering towards it breathlessly
all my life.