Last time I went to Lisbon I met,
in the part of the old town
where people sit on stony steps
and stare vacantly at nothing
when not being restless looking for the man
who sells dust of dreams
so they can fall into a slumber again
and not feel the pain of degradation,
I met a man riding his mule
while playing guitar that lacked strings.

The mule has the patient eyes of an old slave
that didn’t yearn for freedom anymore,
its handler the guitar player,
who under layers of city grime was from Palestine
but didn’t tell anyone
of fear of being sent back to the land of ancient olive trees, mysterious caves
and bulldozers knocking down breeze blocked constructed homes.

Songs that have no words he plays
hoping to wake up sleepwalkers who will follow his lead,
if nothing else to please his father
who has forsaken him and retracted into deep silence.
Slowly the mule walks up a steep, cobbled road
and as the sun momentarily chases away shadows
it remembers a land of green field
where it will go when its burden is over.