The bridges in their magic shapes of coming home
Dreaming,
cold and beautiful,
winter is back home again
in Prague,
like ghosts of lovers,
cigarettes and smiles,
the smell of beer
in crowded cellar bars,
the darkening rooms
and shadow time -
everything now reaching
for this sleepy, soft embrace.
The bridges rise in magic shapes
of rounding dreams
and coming back to where
the one you want is waiting.
My love, all of my dreaming
must be like the river,
dark and murmuring,
bearing swans
and all of our tomorrows;
turning like the earth,
carrying our stories
and reminding us
of all the things we want
and tell our children -
all our dreams and all
our longing coming home.