The song of the mountain brook 

It bubbles, gambols, jumps over stones,

the time and it’s voices float away with foam,

the top of the mountain carries white hair,

a fledgeling flies in the rustling valley.

The dark clouds shake hands with brooks,

the sun muffles their voices, the clouds strengthen,

thousands of snakes hiss madly in the storm,

thunder is the messenger to the wild waters.

Neither torches nor flashlights of the lightning,

only shining lightbulbs of dew drops,

golden sawdust of needles,

the pillars of silence in the land of crashing,

a tree, an animal, walking bearfoot,

not doubting in the mystical rustling.

                                                                                                 translation 2004  Pavla Bejčková