Prague Dawn

In Prague it's growing light
and snowing—
sleety,
leaden.
In Prague the baroque slowly lights up:
uneasy, distant,
its gilt grief-blackened.
The statues on Charles Bridge
look like birds descended from a dead star.

In Prague the first trolley has left the garage, 
its windows glow yellow and warm.
But I know
it's ice-cold inside:
no passenger's breath has warmed it.
In Prague Pepik drinks his coffee and milk, 
the wood table spotless in the white kitchen. 
In Prague it's growing light
and snowing—
sleety,
leaden.

In Prague a cart—
a one-horse wagon—
passes the Old Jewish Cemetery.
The cart is full of longing for another city,
I am the driver.
In Prague the baroque slowly lights up:
uneasy, distant,
its gilt grief-blackened.
In Prague's Jewish Cemetery, death is breathless, stone-still.
Ah my rose, ah my rose, 
exile is worse than death . . .

                                        20 December 1956