Poem in stone, midst quiet gardens,
like an em’rald set in a ring.
Lime trees bow down their branches in homage,
offering up their silvery buds,
a hymn of thanks praising eternal beauty.
Poem in stone, green-domed Belvedere.
A pair of Borzois playfully
chase around over the new-mown lawns.
Into the garden sweetest sounding music
drifts to the lime trees’ silvery buds,
she who plucks the strings of the harp with such feeling,
she is a daughter of Yagiello.
Richer and richer grows the texture,
note joins note in melting harmony.
Rosebuds burst open their red petals glowing,
adding their fragrance to the beauteous idyll.
This poet deceives us. This is what should have been.
Where is she? Where is this queen?
Buried! Her white fingers lifeless
while the harp vainly waits for her.
Near the entrenchment there rises
the tower so steep, so impervious,
its small barred windows tell a grim tale
of rebels caught and hurled below.
Their shouts and curses, groans and weeping,
deep in the dungeon echo still,
drowning the music of the harp’s strings.
Ah, where roses grew now fire leaps. Ah!
Still more fearful tales will be told us,
brother tearing brother from the throne.
Shrine of a queen’s love, thou art transformed,
demented king, bemoaning bitter fate.
Storms, storms and more storms shall come,
plund’ring the roses in thy garden.
But thou shalt still stand,
poem in stone!
Love alone built thy grandeur,
love hewed thy beauty from stone,
when all around was Czech glory ravished,
crushed by mad fury and ruthless hate.
If love alone were the builder,
built every street and dwelling-place,
then my poor country, how changed you’d be,
and what glory would be yours!
English: Malcolm Rayment © 1997
Janáček: Choral Music
