Translated from Czech by the author

I insist that they all be preserved
all the passageways to all the human bones
all the tunnels to the black trains
poised for the sound of the whistle.

Move softly, let’s make sure,
in broad daylight,
to hide the flawed picture of that memory
under the heavy eiderdown of goose feathers.
Cover me, darling,
my breast is broken by frost.

Before the hunt
the girls pluck
the juicy stems of roses
as a memento.
You mend your shoes in spring
and pass old women on the threshold.
They chant over the spinning wheel:
“Never look into a hunter’s eyes,
snow falls there even in midsummer”.

Yesterday it was pouring from the corn
but your hands stayed dry.
That was already me.

They hardly break through
the crowd which looks like me
my shining, rounded words.
I skim them into the lake’s center,
they jump, they hop and plummet
holding their breath
into the depths.
Never will those straight-backed figures hear
the melody of my lips.
Never will their eyes pierce mine,
amateurs.

I choose you.
In the clear, sunny day
a sudden shadow overflows your face,
(I need not call you).
Look up, fool.

When they release the pheasants
onto the silver tray of the meadow,
you will shoot down the one with the longest feather
for your hat.
In the hall, at the feast, noses wrinkle in envy,
mouths filled with shot,
when you taste the heart of the king of the hunt.
I will be behind all that.
Fool, pilgrim, brother.

I waited for you in rainy nights,
I opened my arms for you
in the cooling shadow of the clay
in the bloated buds of the flowers every spring
I wanted to tempt you with pink.
Oh how disdainful you were, oh how you resisted.
I lurked in disguise at bays,
in case you came to play with the girls in their wet petticoats.
In winter, that was my face,
under the ice,
tense
with cold and hope,
in case you crouched down,
cheek
to
cheek.

But now together, pilgrim.
In the endlessly wet landscape.
Only a herd of cows is between us and the horizon.
Well, push them apart
with gentle hands,
don’t squash their teats.

Let the girl with the plaits stay at your back.
In the night she turns completely pink,
a draught comes from her mouth, don’t catch cold.
She moos for more and more
but when she rises to wash herself
you won’t turn your gaze from the path of her hips to the pail.
You turn onto your other side and we both fall asleep.

And she opens her eyes,
as if someone were listening behind the door,
to how love is made
to how love is not made.