EN
I walk through the mist. Silently
my footsteps melt in the snow.
And barefoot, hearing
winter’s quiet song,
I seek the gates of paradise.
When, through the night, anguish
clings to the pilgrim.
Autumn is his paradise,
his mind hesitates,
in memory it melts
Winter here, naked,
reveals its face
and Prague itself,
without a single flaw,
will not awaken to spring.
Under the snow, the orchards
of old Kampa lie
and a young lark
in velvety pride
bristles its feathers in flight.
The old man of the realm of myths;
yes, time is dressing itself.
The river has settled in its hiding place;
flowing this way,
it braids its own hair.
