Dear Lisbon
I should have written this letter long time ago. Just to let you know I love you more and more.
You know Pessoa smoked every night, on my nightstand, in my first summer here. Just off Pink Street.
He kept saying I told you so: “The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd.”
But you also understood all about ups and downs. Your hills match my carefully crafted contrasting thoughts.
In Blindness, Saramago wrote the world ends when you will have lost all your beautiful senses.
Just when I think that’s it, you always remind me of mine, with shades, tones and unrepeatable perfumes.
Welcome to the last view from paradise, all rooftops seem to sing, in fado candlelit serenades.
You say it’s human nature, when your children draw the world in graffiti only patron saints can understand.
You take my hand and pick old streets, because they’re paved with unturned lesson stones. One day…
I’ll walk slowly, rush less on roads with zero certainties, carrying my tote bag full of pasteis de dreams.
When I’m hugging friends over tasty plates, you’ll raise your glass to me and all life travellers.
And I promise I’ll do my best to add more line to your resilient and humble beating heart.
“Quem não arrisca, não petisca“. You can smile if I said something with a very weird not lady-like accent.
I’m just a foreigner you took for a stroll on the bridge, and had me fall in love. Like in that movie… what’s it called?
Ah yes, Before Sunset! When you graciously qualify for the most magical place on earth.
Tonight I admired your pastel looks and I fantasized about becoming yours.
You feel like home.
