Leaves lean out to touch us on the bushy gravel path. Black-bereted the clouds measure our every step. A fanfare of trombones blasts from the river´s curve. It seems for us, in Prague, a parliament of souls convenes. A wife devotedly carries a hydrangea bouquet whispers to her daughter of the loves of her great-aunt. All the beautiful women now united here… Darker now, though long before the evening comes, the night-lights all are brightening. No longer making moans, no longer heaving sighs. A parliament of souls is now convened. Diamonded with light the cemetery shines: Death is not to be believed in here. Like generations long before we feel the way and pass from door to door, and yet they live who lit that spark in us. What secrets will my daughter tell her aunt? The parliament of souls will say. Silent as if wrapped in a damp eiderdown, only faithful Azor barking in the yard. Be quiet dog! We are no refugees Escaping from the parliament of our souls.