I was christened on the edge of Olšany
in the plague chapel of Saint Roch.

When bubonic plague was raging in Prague
they laid the dead around the chapel.
Body upon body in layers.
Their bones, over the years, grew into
rough-stacked pyres
which blazed
in the quicklime whirlwind of clay.

For a long time I would visit
these mournful places
but I did not forsake the sweetness of life.

I felt happy in the warmth of human breath
and when I roamed among people
I tried to catch the perfume of women’s hair.

On the steps of the Olšany taverns
I used to crouch at night to hear
the coffin-bearers and grave-diggers
singing their rowdy songs.

But that was long ago.
The taverns have fallen silent.
The grave-diggers in the end
buried each other.

When spring came within reach
with feather and lute
I’d walk around the lawn with the Japanese cherries
on the south side of the chapel
and, bewitched by their spring splendour,
I thought about girls
silently undressing at night.
I did not know their names
but one of them,
when sleep would not come,
tapped softly on my window.

And who was it that wrote
those poems on my pillow?

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Translated from the Czech by Ewald Osers
Copyright © Ewald Osers

I’ve long got used to not hearing,
Here and there,
the Flower Song from Carmen,
and the wind is throwing snow into my eyes
so I shouldn’t see
what lies close before me.

On Christmas Day I place at the table
an extra three chairs.
One for my dead father,
the second for my mother,
and this year a third for my sister.
She was killed in a car.

Sometimes I’m also visited by others
whom I loved in this life.
They are curious.
As I slice my apple
they peer over my shoulder.

This always is a precious moment in the year
for tears of remembrance.
But we won’t let the sirens on the roofs
sob and wail
as at the beginning of May.
We’ll cry quietly, alone.

But what can I set before them,
what can I offer my ghosts?
Here is the bread of this country
and its rough wine.
Here is a bowl of cashew nuts
from far away, from India,
and they taste sweet
like the first childish kisses.

Maybe these words
will make my mother smile.
But I’m not sure.
She used to smile with her lips alone,
her eyes were permanently sad.

And when she wept
her tears flowed inward.

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Translated from the Czech by Ewald Osers
Copyright © Ewald Osers