EN
In the middle of the hillside among the linden trees,
a wild woman hurries from the morning.
She pays no heed to the dewdrops,
her husband clings to his pipe.
She hurries toward a gray cottage,
approaching the hill just now.
What drives these wild women?
A falconry lodge among the trees.
She crouches lasciviously beneath the window,
a veil shrouding her bony temples.
Her movements are measured, she remains silent.
A mountain of muscles, she gazes at them.
He bowed his head, swayed his waist,
and boldly spat into his palms.
Concentrating, he snapped his fingers,
and threw himself into it completely.
Then he grabbed the heavy barbell—
He says: “Oh my! — Son!”—
The weight flies suddenly to the ground
the falcon is as if scalded
the falcon is as if after an explosion
it flaps in vain in the fresh air.
Through the window against the morning sun,
a strange figure sways.
He wears a black cloak like a raven.
Good heavens, death is staring at him.
Barely having risen from his slumber,
he asked about the cause of the commotion.
Seeking a sip of moisture, he
it didn’t occur to him, not even in his mind.
Not death, but our Slávka
startled the trainee just then.
A powerful dose of great love
rushed to his aid.
