At the quiet edge of a path, so simple,
stands a bench covered with moss.
It has been waiting there for a long time
for tired steps and joy.
The forest rustles softly, green and dense,
the Vltava whispers its poem.
The sun paints a pattern of light on the dark night through the splendor of the leaves.
"Come, sit down, rest,
forget everyday life, don't rush home!
See the falcon there, high in the wind,
and breathe deeply – the moment is passing."
But today it remains alone,
no hiker laughs, no cyclist lingers.
Only ants crawl gently
over the wood of the ancient splendor.
But tomorrow... perhaps a guest will come
who missed his bread here with a view.
The bench, it endures patiently –
for everyone finds its way home eventually.