On her open book
a smooth rock peacefully rests
at the poem 63 of Skácel.
How many pairs of amber eyes watch her
from the grass!
One day seven buds will explode
but now they are silent.

The true happiness is always kept hidden
and you feed it under the table.

The cluster of birch trees staining the woods
will be in the same place in one thousand of years
or not.
We surely not.