Late autumn came to Prague so it's cold, foggy and grey in here. And I developed a habit of going to the river to walk and think nearly every day. Hence all the water, swans, boats and reflection in my recent poems.
The river is mystical
when the lamps still light on village railway platforms
Wind is blowing and the water folds
There's no end seen through the haze
Everything is grey and non-existent
It's the morning when - if you're out of luck and woken up by freezing feet - you consider going to the river bank and walk into the stream very slowly, wearing a coat, until your head sinks bellow the surface
Then you reconsider, it's icy
You turn over, ignore your cold feet as well as the bare trees by the river
Behind your bedroom walls I'll pass by in train
the sound blending with dream
Nobody will believe what happened when, later, the mist will rise
Swans have assembled in rows on night river surface
without anybody noticing
Boats passing by, their dinning rooms lit
You can't see properly from light into dark
All the white birds have their heads turned against the stream
The haze is coming
I'm sitting by the river
and words start creeping in fluidly
They'd be about the black sky on the left
I shouldn't look over there, it swallows swans
they sail there in four-file
and that is always a bad sign
The railway bridge in front on the other hand...
lighten trains
modest steel arches
it doesn't even have a name, on all the maps it's simply written: railway bridge
There's too much happening on the right
the sky being still absolutely transparent over there
Everything is laid down on the river
And it doesn't feel, it doesn't freeze, it doesn't crave like I do
sitting and staring
contemplating how would the words sound if only I'd put them on paper
