I can’t tell you much, except
for the graceful aging,
the strength of history,
how young and hungry this city let me be.
If you don’t know the language, you must
let your heart do all the talking.
If you don’t know the language, it’s easier
to believe what you hear.
I can’t tell you much, except
how I cried the first time
I walked across the Charles Bridge.
The weight of it under my feet
lifting me up like a child
able to see it all in one breath.
My lungs filling with every
ancient hero, and the castle,
and the river thick and strong,
and the little old men fishing
or not fishing and the music,
gypsy born, teasing
the bottoms of my soul,
asking me to dance and
not taking no for an answer.
How all my definitions for beautiful
started scrambling for better words
in my head, and my American mouth,
awe-shaped and eager,
let the gulls fly in and out
searching for bits of bread
to fill their own.
I can’t tell you much, except
how freedom felt here.
Frenzied and fresh,
newborn and nearly disastrous.
So much future to never regret again,
and every day a fantastic gift
from God, or someone
in an equally exalted position.
I can’t tell you much, except
how the memory of revolution
hangs in the air like velvet.
And in every spot where
the absence of bullets made peace
scream through this city like fire,
the first furious flames burn bright
on their way to the green and
golden era of spring.— cin salach
If you don’t know the language, you must
let your heart do all the talking.
