until I heard the jackdaw's cry
echoed in the bended halls,
saw my cheek in ghostly faces
still life-lingering;
until I saw the tombstones
through the iron Star of David,
pins of the penal machine
bleeding the message, "boots against
broken cobblestone;"
until I felt drawn to the
fifth story window, the city's
unbearable gravity,
factory hands with severed fingers,
statues without heads.
In the shadow of the bridge
in Národní's old cafe light
here is something to give pause:
does a man ride on the current
or does he make it?
Ravachol, lost son of Prague,
chills the river to a standstill,
enigmatic, wholly spent,
consumed by the narrow streets, and
waits to be noticed.
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