LI
Josef Štýbr translation
Ye little, ye wee little birds, Ye song-dreamers in sleeping; Does anyone of you there know That I die here from weeping? Dear moon, stop moving in the sky Till I some solace gather; My love’s fire’s extinct as art thou— We both fit well together. The last flame flickers to die out, All that’s left are words hollow; Yet I would blow all to new life, Though nought but grief should follow.