My august ancestral strands will all to one twine,
To one twine all,
It is a matter
My grandfather strolled
In Prague along and puffed at his cigar.
The sky was gray but for an intermittent column of light
And the boulevards met this horizon
And that, at this or another angle,
With a cathedral coherence
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.