by Brent Hightower
Your voice is like a freshening wind,
Like a storm from a frozen sea, in sultry Alfama,
Or the scent of a rose on a dark winter evening,
That fills the eyes with tears.
Those black grapes of the Douro.
Their succulent leaves against the dark earth, and the sun,
I long to know the taste of them, of their dark wine,
That fills the soul with peace.
Those winter nights in Mouraria,
The ragged peddlers, the Gypsies, and the faint accordion,
Everywhere the angelic mourning of the guitar,
And that restive yearning of the street.
In those dark streets of Lisbon,
I hear your voice with every step,
It is always with me;
It is the sound of my longing.
Last updated August 27, 2015