2749 My august ancestral strands will all to one twine, To one twine all, It is a matter Of time. My grandfather strolled In Prague along and puffed at his cigar. The sky was gray but for an intermittent column of light. The boulevards met this horizon And that, at this or another angle, With somehow a cathedral coherence, As a masterwork of single intent. He was content And took note of nothing beyond this his contentment. This is who I was before I was born, looking Idly at the sky.