No starry constellation moves an inch
when our dead are scattered underneath the larches,
and dropping from the tendrils, light as smoke,
water turns that ash in grass to ink.
The tongue still laps along the smoky walls,
odd phrases curl about the head-board and chair,
and words look back to catch a voice, even still,
or catch a ribbon, loosened, grey and blue.
No starry constellation moves an inch –
the line streams silently out of the hook,
so lightly slides the thread out of the ear.
The tongue is caught on all these rings of ash.
Translated from the Czech by Justin Quinn