Prague lays over its inhabitants in shades of grey. Oppressively close to
the surface, some of us duck, others simply walk carefully, our shoulders
stooped, trying to avoid the monochrome rainbow at the end of the hesitant
rain. Prague rains itself on us, impaled on one hundreds towers, on a
thousand immolated golden domes. We pretend not to see it bleeding to the
river. We just cross each other in ornate street corners, from behind
exquisite palaces. We don't shake heads politely anymore. We are not sure
whether they will stay connected if we do.
It is in such times that I remember an especially sad song, Arabic sounds
interlaced with Jewish wailing. Wall after wall, turret after turret, I
re-visit my homeland. It is there, in that city, which is not Arab, nor
Jewish, not entirely modern, nor decidedly antique that I met her.
And the pain was strong.