The best part of Lisbon is its benign neglect,
blocks, of once posh, flats untouched by wars
empty now, but full of silent history.
Untold stories guarded by rusty padlocks,
cobwebs for curtains
and when broken windows
let in pale sunlight ancient dust dance.
Around these islands of the past
a steady river of cars
driven by those see newness
as a way to a better future.

In narrow streets, away from the bustle,
little squares with a statue of a poet
whose transient wisdom is long forgotten.
Or a general who bravely lost a battle
on a field of war no one remembers.
Or a bishop whose thunderous sermons
against lose living was ignored then
and certainly blissfully forgotten now.

Yet in the hazy stream of life
there are rocks, barely visible,
which tell us that there are basic truths which will prevail,
as long as the river of life does
and beyond where peace resides.