An Angel Walks Here

An angel walks here and has a golden hand,
which hand is silver and soft,
it is being laid down exactly, carefully and inevitably:
what in Nature thus inclines and announces?
An angel attends to the long seclusion,
sings not - but its hand sings and sings,
it is a hand from music, and no wind will so beautifully delight,
perhaps a little hot sun at dusk under a patient tree,
when no-one is near.
It is my acknowledgement, I constantly utter it,
that like a living leaf it falls and sings and hears
and breathes audition instantly, it is miraculous,
at the end of all days I must sigh, not knowing
if it is to the good.

(Translated from the Czech
by Litt/Little and Tomas Mika)