Category: Travel

If houses here are green, I'll step inside a house. 
If bridges here are sound, I'll walk on solid ground. 
If love's labour's lost in every age, I'll gladly lose it here.

If it's not me, it's one who is as good as me.

If a word here borders on me, I'll let it border. 
If Bohemia still lies by the sea, I'll believe in the sea again. 
And believing in the sea, thus I can hope for land.

If it's me, then it's anyone, for he's as worthy as me.
I want nothing more for myself. I want to go under.

Under – that means the sea, there I'll find Bohemia again. 
From my grave, I wake in peace. 
From deep down I know now, and I'm not lost.

Come here, all you Bohemians, seafarers, dock whores, and ships 
unanchored. Don't you want to be Bohemians, all you Illyrians, 
Veronese and Venetians. Play the comedies that make us laugh

until we cry. And err a hundred times, 
as I erred and never withstood the trials, 
though I did withstand them time after time.

As Bohemia withstood them and one fine day 
was released to the sea and now lies by water.

I still border on a word and on another land, 
I border, like little else, on everything more and more,

a Bohemian, a wandering minstrel, who has nothing, who 
is held by nothing, gifted only at seeing, by a doubtful sea, 
       the land of my choice.