Early morning. Lisbon awaking from a warm summer night. Old wrinkled women sweep the small steps to their doors. Our feet skate down narrow roads that smell of sardines and fado. The tram carries childish-looking tourists towards St. George’s Castle. We’re going down. To meet the nymphs that once made ships sink and men dream. They sell chestnuts, nowadays. But keep the chance of looking into the river’s eyes, once in a while. The giant Tagus – “Tejo”, as we say – always disguised as an ocean. It’s OK. We’re disguised as poets.
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