Spring

My tired hands tremble from the cold.
I slide across the frozen puddle,
behind the barracks, where the evil eyes were not looking.

The sun came out -
I turned to face it,
on the grey wall beyond the barbed wire sat a bird
he sang...


I took a deep breath,
felt the spring in my mouth
- we looked into the sun -
we both sang.


Vera Hozáková (1943)