The plains of air are scored like a field

with bubbling ruts of voice

and swelling line,

 

the harrow and the plough unearthing

horizons of peaceful pain

and solitary rot.

 

Horror, humiliation and heroism

unite in a confluence around us,

a Vltava that moves

 

answeringly as all memories.

To it we entrust the boats

we still know how to build.

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