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I know what longing is,
it makes me blind.
how sickly I drag myself
over thresholds of days.
Sitting on the ground with you,
the knees entwined
From afar I hear our song...
for the violet heather is in bloom.
This longing for the trees
is more of a torment than love.
Five birches, the green river,
the wind in the hair, the soft shore.
This longing is awful, dreadful,
for once again the heather is in bloom.
and the day has fallen upon it
like a stone.
Vera Hozáková: Longing (1941)
[Listen to Mrs. Hozáková recite her poem in Czech]