Prague

With the tired air of the gambler who weeps over the last defeat your black walls rise

Little does it matter about the icy north wind about the snowstorms about the ice that dangles from the noses of your Gothic towers

The smell of the coal is acrid that burns in your entrails acrid is the smoke that dresses everything in mourning but your severe dress is adorned by the golden gleams of the Baroque and beneath the black are infinite colours as a warning of your real greatness where the heart of Europe beat