Prague was icy, and gilt and sunlit. There were blackened statues on the Charles bridge crossing the Vlatva, and the sky was violet, our hands freezing. Sausages and steaming pastry browned over the fire at the Christmas market. A woman walking a pig down the street in the afternoon. Red candles lit for sorrow and remembrance, and Kafka's name on walls and street corners.
No comments:
Post a Comment