Praha

Somewhere behind the blanket of pudgy clouds, sun rises and sets in the city of Prague.

Standing on the oldest bridge of the city, I look, not at the artists or their artwork. I look, not at the sauntering tourists tapping their feet to the lilting music of the musicians. I look, not at the flailing yellow trees or their carpets of fresh laden leaves.

Standing at the Charles Bridge, I do not look at the waves of the river underneath. I do not look at the swans at the banks. I do not look at the walls of the far standing forts or the spires of the castles. I do not look. I blind myself from the beauty of the old, old town.

Standing on the Fourteenth Century Bridge, I stare at the vast canvas of glowing sky and look inwardly. I look within. I walk with a lamp into the dark passages of a small vestibule. I find an empty wall. On this wall I etch: the birds, banks, trees, castles, forts and fallen leaves. I paint the bridge. I paint the old town and its astronomical clock. But I pirouette this wall and wonder, how to paint the sky that lights this beautiful, beautiful city. I wonder, leaving the lantern at the foot of the wall.

Somewhere behind the blanket of pudgy clouds, sun rises and sets in the city of Prague. Sometimes, when the daylight filters through layers of thick mist, the sky lights up like soft glow of lamps, like the flames of a yellow bulb that leak through the florescent film of a lantern.