Page:A Book of Czech Verse.pdf/77



I have so little blood, And yet, down from my mouth How it flows! When there grows spreading grass on my grave, When I rot in the field, Who comes then in my place? Who will lift up my shield?

I stood shrouded in smoke from the furnaces’ glow, With the night in my eyes, with the flame in my breath, In the light of the sun, in the evening gloom; And I scowled as I measured the killers within: The Jews with their wealth and the lords with their rank, I repulsive—a miner still foul from the pit. Though a head gave the flash of a diadem bright, Yet they sensed my defiance, the fist that I clenched. Then each one, at my gaze, with uneasiness fills, At the hate of a miner from Beskydan hills.

I have so little blood, And yet down from my mouth How it flows! When there grows spreading grass on my grave, When I rot in the field, Who will stand at my post? Who will lift up my shield?