Prague is for the Intellectuals

I wrote a poem
Dedicated to the old and new versions of me.
For I was young, headstrong and wild.
A bit more composed and sagacious now.
I got friends, made a few foes.
Witnessed humanity at its high and low.
Too belligerent to make peace with the world.
Wouldn't change a thing though.

I traveled to Prague,
where intellectuals and artists congregate.
Finding peace in chaos and solidarity.
Collecting knowledge in castle ruins and on St. Charles Bridge.
Spring scene filled with Kafka's melancholia and Mucha's elegance.
The ancient spirits they said: sic transit gloria mundi,
Yet I don't see that happening here in Czechia.

Find me amongst other tourists in the clamorous market place,
with a pear wine in hand, I tread the Vltava riverbank.
The Church bell rang, I watched as the birds flew high.
Taking pictures with my bare eyes, leaving imprints on my mind.
Genuine beauty is pervasive in the city,
The provocative tančící dům,  the street artist on every turning corner.
And when those old cars race through the street of Lesser Town,
If you listen close, indeed,
Czech is an everlasting Bohemian Rhapsody.

" Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths 
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."

"The Cloths of Heaven" - W. B. Yeats