II

Perhaps time is not a corridor,
that you could walk through.
Perhaps time is
room next to room,
next to the restlessness of my room.
In one you call me by a name,
that no one speaks anymore.
In the second you laugh at the one,
which we came up with
just for oneself.
In the next you remain
in my song.
Only in my restless room
you are no longer.
A story is another dimension,
or the room
where I locked you away,
because you could no longer return?
When I open you
on another page,
are you still there,
or just another cross-section
of what I lost?
You are not here,
but the light around your absence
pořád ohýbá —
jako lžička,
which I hold in my hand,
when I think of you.
I no longer gaze into space.
Now I look in vain
through the spruce branches in the yard
into the orange darkness,
that won't allow
any star to shine.