BAKUS ODE

The forests I tried to run through weighted with snow.
The birches reach up to the sky trying to touch the towers of Buchlov.
Alone I ran among the rotted fruit and roaming sheep,
My feet crunching the snow was the only sound.
The sparkling constellations brighten the darkness above me.
Bricks are hard - they surround my head in a vault.
And from each brick drips drops of dew, strata of time.
From blue skies the torrents fall, a hail of song and wine.
The history of the people, crashing over me like waves
With cobblestones beneath my feet, a plague tower to admire before me,
I think only of the journey that awaits.
Nad Krajinou ve Strani je slyset zvon,
Zive svolaval, mrtve oplakaval.
[In the countryside of Strani you can hear the bell,
It calls the living and cries for the dead]
Shrieks and whistles puncture the air as
I say "fo'shizzle" this wine is good.  all right.

Jesus woke dazed in Moravia on chleb and his own brand of wine.
The wine is sweet, and smooth, and scarring
Carries me back to another time,
Of kinds and queens and woodland huntsmen.
The rosy cheeks of Moravian children warm my heart and soul.
As do their pouty red lips that drool with drops of future wine sips.
The thirst of a thousand years in a land of endless hills.
Beneath the saber and under the sickle.