Lisbon

Is it the Tagus singing,
When I face an empty soul?
Or is the Fado waving,
When I simply don’t feel whole?

Was it the oldest bookshop,
that made me lose control? Or-
was the Earl’s statue shadow,
what my fascination stole?

Will the twenty-eight tram reach-
St. George’s Castle- the knoll?
Will the belvedere’s sight, scar-
my memory with warm coal?

The revolution’s bridge,
is it just my tears’ pole?
When the roasted chestnuts’ scent,
makes the guitar whines to stroll?

Is the carved poet the why,
in this world ‘Saudade’ has a role?
Or the past expedition,
its haunting- genuine sole?

Was it the Arch of Glory,
the gate to the culture thole?
Or the cause I stumble on
Locals, tourists- the same shoal?

Is inside me “something that
has no name”?, this place consoles.
“The heart would stop beating”, if-
It was not part of my bole.

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