Lisbon Poems - Poems about Lisbon

What a timeless charm Lisbon is Meticulously set on the face Of seven hills with eyes That overlook the Tagus River. The narrow, winding streets Tell a story of a culture so distinct Different in many ways but hung on a single straw Like the pieces of every cobblestone on the floor. The sweet sea wind, in...

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How beautiful and discreet, this port, at night, When you listen to fado, come that voice, Misia It becomes deep and mysterious, sonorous, Its numerous lights are warm as wool. How enchanting this port, at night, o night Between the sea and the starry sky that sleeps, Its illiterate cranes are so stupid, yes, Yet they really know the pain of the...

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Night in Lisbon Once, I went to a dance hall in Lisbon an awful place full of desperate middle-aged women hoping to catch a man, any man. Ah, for the horrible colours looking putrid on the wall Was the music supplied by a jukebox when the accordion was too drunk to play Scrawny women of the night sat around the...

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Lisboa é boa*. Yeah, Lisbon is good at very long distance of dreams. The shivering traveler pulls up his hood: it seems that the traveller misunderstood what’s autumn in Portugal. Streams of water run volubly down the steep streets, the wind searches pockets and sleeve, the sheets hung to dry do not differ from sheets of rain… That’s what happens when fantasy meets reality...

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I walk my life, a subway station Where dirt consorts The air around. It pounds my nape, It flames my mind With sights and fates And sounds. Above, a tram goes up the alley Tinged with canary hue. Below, my wit: What void, what valley: It sank, in Tagus mused. I take a seat, doors screech behind. O, what wondrous whiffs? Of metal beams Attriting loudly Against metal wheels? To a halt...

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Empty streets I walk and walk Aimed at the lonely riverside There's nothing to think of, just stand there Just stand there and quietly stare At the water at my feet Struggling to flow down my face While my favorite music plays. Empty streets I walked and walked To the sound of a desolate trumpet Played by a mask hidden...

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