God, how many of your ancient walls my soul wanders pale,
longingly belongs to, and no one, no one opens,
does not open windows, does not open doors.
Golden, warm are your tents, but here it soon darkens,
and in my soul the radiance already cools, fades;
to your Light let her go, mournful son
and fears the cold. See how flies, beetles
prepare for the restful sleep. Your fervent love
is counted as mine. - Yet less is my
soul than they!... But what their dreaming
means to me... I do not want. God, open to me.
God, let me into the warmth; I fear the cold.
They all go to You; your children, not guests.
Only I am outside. Fierce, quiet they walk and simple.
God, open to me. And not to sleep: to Joy...
God, open to me to Joy.
(Bohuslav Reynek /1892–1971/,
Sorrow of the Earth, 1924)
