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Iberian Cycle: Lisboa
by Antonio Mota

Oh Lisboa, what have you said to me?
Graceful lady Lisbon
Whose streets are littered
With the beautiful burden of memories
Built entirely to reflect the infinite glory
Of Iberian sunsets – Europe’s last light
Am I yours, Lisbon?
How many have died for you?

From the heights of São Jorge will I see the answer?
Your ancient grace almost wholly robbed
And pulled back into an angry earth
Grateful Lisbon, whose heart flows
With waters of the Tagus
Where mundane tankers spew a dirty grey
In place of the gold and spice of caravels
Smelling of the new world.

You, Iberia’s elegant widow,
Tell me the joy of revolution
Let me see your dried carnations
And drink wine pressed by free men
Show me tombs of sailors and poets
I’ve tramped your hills
From victorious Benfica to dull Encarnacão
To monumental Belem
I’ve rolled down your grand avenues
And paused – a decade or an afternoon?

In Alfama one is the same as the other
But how you’ve fooled us!
When did you join the world?

You’ve spread your arms

And spread the future thick
As sweet rice
All around you

I’ll not forget in the roar
Of this new Lisbon’s traffic
And her trams and discos
Her glittering boutiques and cafes

That where Phoenicians saw on your shore
The end and stopped.

You saw a beginning,
And sailed to it.

 Other poems by Antonio Mota:

• Sevilla