English poem
Petr Bezruč
by Svatopluk Čech (1846–1908)
Bad verse at times I write, I know, I’m read but little luckily, Into a dying flame I blow, Though laughs at me nobility.
At times a silent song I sing. If bad the note, forgive me, pray, A miner black to work I cling From Saturday to Saturday.
In stormy times, when roaring sounds The jam of thought and fantasy, In dismal monotone abounds For me the selfsame melody.
On my people’s nape’s one dragon ill, One fist about their throat is twirled; And from my verses one dactyl, One sorrow stares into the world.