Look over there, The moon has fled
well she is not kind — she is bad
just hidden from us in a clouds' cache
and nudging them and it starts to splash
with acrid rain on the darkness
of the roofs with breath of softness
tinging a house where the sleep could stay
sleep, wherever you have slipped away
all those dreams, they have become wet
the rock is sighing it has let
the ravine to take one stone falling
and meantime here I, I am singing.
Never mind that I am in a jail
because I know the morning won't fail
to help me when it grows to inflame
out of the ripe night which keeps the same
also for the next tomorrow.
Indeed they seem to overflow
these mornings, still in a drowsy vein
as raising the head from breast of rain
which fell in love with them and shines
and to honour both with my lines
while for me a note of wind is blown
tell me, why I shouldn't sing on my own.
Written June 16, 1941
Original in Czech:
https://cs.wikisource.org/wiki/Zcest%C3%AD/Sv%C3%ADt%C3%A1n%C3%AD