When your eyes are brimming with tears, when you weep,
when you are troubled, times are hard,
then I always offer you a branch of hope,
and my prophetic voice is heard.

Do not take my words lightly, for down from heaven
prophetic spirits come below;
the law which all things in the world does govern
says that all will pay what they owe.

All rivers seek to end up in the deep sea,
and flames turn dark, high in the sky
all that the earth creates next ceases to be:
all must change, but nothing will die.

Certain sure is every step taken by fate,
what shall be, will always occur;
what rivers of one day carry in their spate
next day in the world will recur.

*

One day down by the river a man I espied,
illustrious dukes’ forefather;
he was trudging behind his plough in the field,
the fruits of the earth to gather.

Council elders came to address the ploughman then,
and he was appointed a prince,
and shining golden raiments he was given;
no ploughing he ever did since.

He set down the plough, the oxen he dismissed:
"Whence you came, back you must now go!"
Thereupon he drove his staff into the ground,
so leaves and flowers it would grow.

The oxen disappeared in a hill nearby—
muddy waters still mark the spot;
from the hazelwood tree’s bark that was so dry
three vigorous branches did sprout.

And the branches flourished and bore fruit, all three,
but only one of them survived;
the other two withered and fell from the tree,
to this day they have not revived.

Listen and know this: no voices speak in vain:
so remember them all your lives:
the time will come, the time it will come again,
when even dead tissue revives.

Both those branches will blossom, so full of grace, 
gather strength, spreading wide and far;
and suddenly all the world they will amaze,
for such gainful fruit they will bear.

Then the prince in gold and purple will return,
for his debt he will repay now,
he will revive again from rack and ruin
Přemysl's old abandoned plough.

He will recall the oxen from the hillside,
harness them to the plough again,
finish his good work in the neglected field
and there he will sow golden grain.

The seed will germinate, the spring crop emerge,
golden ears will lusciously shine;
with them the fortunes of this land will resurge,
former glory will rise again.

*

Up above the river I saw a cliff rising,
where Duke Krok’s golden castle stood;
the meadows round the castle were flourishing— 
Princess Libuše’s fine orchard.

Down below the castle is a charming place—
Libuše’s riverside bath spa.
There I espied the princess, so gracious of face;
her silver dress shone from afar.

From her beloved bath spa, on its threshold,
she watched the river in dull flow;
reading hopes and fears for her beloved land,
saw its fate that we cannot know.

“I see conflagrations and bloody fighting,
a sharp sword is running you through.
I can see your misery, and your striving;
do not despair, my people, though.”

Then two maidens who were standing near by her,
gave her a cradle, all golden;
with a kiss, into the bottomless river
below the cliff she cast it then.

Hear the words of Libuše; this you should know— 
this I heard her prophetic voice say:
“Rest meanwhile in my son’s bed here down below
I will call you again one day.”

Out of darkness in the womb of the deep sea
a fresh new world will have risen
in my father’s courtyard each broad linden tree 
will bear fragrant blooms once again.

Poor harvests will be restored by heavy rain,
night will give birth to a bright day;
and the formerly so glorious nation
will celebrate again, I say.

Back in the light from its watery abyss,
the golden cradle is revealed,
this land’s salvation, an ages-old promise,
will rest on it just like a child."

*

I have seen you, my blessed couch, you holy one,
my star, to me already known,
yet I need to know—my peace of mind is gone—
when will I see you once again?

Summer after summer, see how they hasten,
just as winter follows winter;
but the trust I have still remains unshaken 
and every year hope grows stronger.

But when in summer below the cliff they’ve swum,
many of them do not come back,
and when in winter a crowd is having fun,
under their sleigh the ice may crack,

Libuše’s regiment, ah, I sigh, aghast,
has gained some new members once more.
When will the time come when I can rest at last?
Oh, now is not the time, for sure.

For as in the books of fate it is written,
now hear my message, I advise:
In its honour, when arrives that happy dawn
the dead shall again also rise.

Then Libuše, great regiments standing by, 
her water army will station;
she will raise her motherly hand to the sky,
to glorify the Czech nation!"

*

I saw a church that above the Orlice stood;
I heard the ring of its golden bell,
before the sincerity of Czechs, age-old,
was destroyed by passions from hell.

When God’s virtues in our Czech land were banished,
no faith with love and hope remained,
and deep inside the earth the church just vanished,
water flooded where it had reigned.

But it will not be buried for evermore;
again the water will recede,
the church will rise up, glorious as before,
the bell’s splendid voice will resound.

Hear this, you should know that thus it is written,
to come to be it is destined:
“And then you shall see a new golden age dawn,
by the golden bell awakened.

From that hillside above Orlice river,
the wind a new forest will sow;
then when the freshly sown thicket grows taller,
and pines to maturity grow,

the farthest pine tree, the oldest survivor,
once it lives to its final day,
will then wither and die, fall in the river,
and even its roots will decay:

Then wild swine will appear; they will root out now
all remnants left within the dell,
and from the shattered ruins there down below
will shine again the golden bell.

For it was from the earliest times enjoined
to make its journey underground;
when the time came it would reach the goal assigned,
over the river and beyond.

Know that on a hillside, below a green grove,
the destined stem, nearly full-grown,
is tall and strong, but few branches does it have;
above there’s a flourishing crown.

Is the bell already on its way as well?
Will it be timely, is it near?
Who can bring us news good and reliable
and tell us what we want to hear?

Ah, I saw a farmer in a field ploughing
in Bystřice’s vicinity,
in all humility he sang that morning:
“O Lord God, Holy Trinity!”

Then a strange obstacle resisted the plough,
wrenched the ploughshare from the furrow:
“What devil from hell is blocking my way now?
Straight to hell may both of them go!”

The ploughman thus cursed, and next in the furrow
a shrill voice was heard, the bell’s chime—
the golden bell’s plaintive call from down below:
“Oh, not yet; it is not yet time!”

Oh, not yet, it is not time, not yet, I fear,
but place your ear nearer the ground,
beneath the roots of the fir tree, and you’ll hear
the golden bell—a distant sound.

*

Complain not that ill fate and woes came your way,
bringing you suffering and pain,
rather lament that you have failed, to this day,
from fate greater wisdom to gain.

Ah, I see a mountain, tallest in the land—
to you this mountain is well known,
orchards flourishing below it, all around,
and the Lord’s temple stands thereon.

People enter the church by three different ways,
three different ways come out, apart;
so hear this and know what the written word says,
take this prophetic voice to heart:

“You are nurturing hope, in vain though today.
Your sorrows and grief will persist,
for till you find, one day, a single doorway 
no strong Czech nation can exist!"

Ears to hear with everyone has been given,
why then with your thumbs keep them shut?
You who have been granted wisdom from heaven,
why then trample it underfoot?

Since Svatopluk taught his dear sons to agree, 
a thousand years have now gone past,
and yet his golden words of wisdom, I see,
remain to be heeded at last!

*

Your father’s glorious deeds of long ago
you’ve recalled with pride for ever;
you can see in Prague his statue—half-hero—
by the bridge over the river.

His head is quite washed away by wind and rain,
his chest smashed by a warring Swede;
but his torso and legs today still remain,
the trappings of some foolish pride.

Do not speak of “a relic of past ages,
stone crumbling, cracking and broken”
Know that it is for your today’s new sages
a warning—a fateful token!

Hear the words I say—heed them attentively:
Nurture no hopes that are in vain,
till in that torso a heart beats ardently
and a true head grows once again!