Near the cliff's edge he stood
poised and composed. Wind swept dust
whirling salt mingling thyme,
tickling his half-clogged nose.
Seagulls screeching,
gliding, soaring, diving,
harbingers of electric storms.
A mistral wind blew cold and cruel
black clouds formed low, forbidding.
Lazy lizards scuttled for refuge
Sparrows hid in lowly carobs
Or flew into the stately pines.
The wind spoke suddenly.
Gusts whispering dread.
An urge, a whisper, an invitation
echoing sirens of old:
"Be free, fly, liberate yourself."
Below, the sea in turmoil,
no fishing boats in sight.
No one but he dared face the storm,
the storm he feared
was inside his tattered soul,
a sea of torment.
The birds and creatures of the wild
found a haven, but he had none,
no solutions to the inner storm,
except to dive and join the sirens,
in the perilous seas below.
The Fight for Freedom
Another art exhibition, paintings of naïve art decorated on ancient doors
and window shutters, most of them about harvesting of olive and carobs.
And of course there were mules and donkeys without the beasts of burden
the Iberian landscape could not contained its charm of slow but steady
labour. Fences made by stones, from unwilling earth, this patch of land
is mine given to me by my father. And so are the trees, all of them; land
was important back then for families’ survival and cultural inheritance.
And they are lucky, the Portuguese, no horde of war injured people will
descend upon them and declare a new Hebrew republic,
Yet, once upon a time Portugal was a province under Imperial Rome till
it declared independence, by force. If you do not fight for your freedom
you will not get it. So what is left for the Palestinians to do….Intifada?
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