What you do not come across. Sunk away in your own thoughts. Wandering vertically upwards. Like a giant on mud feet. About the mirror-smooth pebbles. Decorating the streets here. True artworks are it. Beautiful but giant impractical.
At Praça dos Restauradores you can endlessly get off and on buses. That immense hordes of tourists broke out. Rows thick at the traffic lights. Waiting to cross the road safely.
A place of honor has been reserved for them. On the square with that beautiful name. A plaque praises creativity and craftsmanship. From the Portuguese street makers, called ‘calceteiros’. Their effigies cast in bronze.
Lisbon in the month of August. That complete madhouse. With screaming sirens they squeeze through the narrow streets. The emergency services that claim loud priority. Almost an impossible task. Hardly succeeded.
Thanks to helm art driven by cold-bloodedness. An unreal film. Playing before your eyes. About a traffic accident in the Alfama district. Fascinating images of a rat race for priority.
Human seas, drawn up in hours-long queues. At tourist attractions. Shock and disappointment on expectant faces. Oh poor one, in vain they defied the urban pandemonium. Laminated with overheated traffic noise.
A concise, catchy statement. Which I picked up somewhere and fully endorse.
“Good poetry tells a story, a feeling, in small, simple terms.”
I’ll turn my back on the guess. A dead-end shaded side street. Confusion about how to proceed now. Opposite an alley-like street. Work up on foot. Or conveniently with the waiting cable tram.
That ultra-sloping track with an average gradient of no less than 22.9. Just relax halfway up the climb. There on the wall chalked. My attention claimed. Because of that valuable idea in that compact form. That makes it extra sharp.
Lisbon is not just noisy. Of constantly moving voices. Landing aircraft and ever stationary car traffic.
Meanwhile, the city disappears in its tumult, they do not give up hope. Noteworthy those cicadas. To hear even above the traffic noise. In this cradle of the Portuguese soul.
You must learn to keep poetry. Text artificially constructed and written down. Thoughts forced into rhyme and rhythm schemes. An inevitable phenomenon. Inseparable from it. With that national character: Alma Portuguesa.
Lisboa, the meeting place of intelligentsia. A source of inspiration for writers, artists and scientists. Capital of this land of poets. With poetry as old as the nation itself.
Here in that metropolis on the Tagus. By chance in that steep narrow street. Streamlined by tram rails. Perhaps I have translated it defectively, so with reservation. To adjust my view. In such a way that the atmospheric representation is equivalent.
I deserve every sunset I expect
I deserve the touch of someone who cleans my soul
and transforms all my black dreams
on a background of stars
Today I was called by it. From that wall full of graffiti. On the way up to the historic center. From the oldest nation in Europe. Above that where the cultural heritage was waiting for me. In all its glory and beauty. Ah, words are always struggling behind my feelings.
Now a deep truth. In powerful sentence structure. Poetic lyricism, written by Portugal’s heavyweights. Beautiful and not forced at all.
Then again everyday word art. In the form of this wall poem. I think it is also exceptionally poetic.
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