From the place where we are right,
in spring, flowers
will never grow.
That place where we are right
is hard and compact
like a yard.
But the world is dug up
by our doubts and loves,
like a mole, like a plow.
(Yehuda Amichai /1924–2000/,
The Place Where We Are Right;
translation Marcela Koupilová)