In the strain and hazy fragrance of
The garden of Miradouro de São Pedro
De Alcântara, a mosaic of cobblestones
Lies locked in Minerva’s fixed watch,
The perpetual gaze of her opulent bust;
Through ceviche scents and pastel tones
Of Lisbon’s blooming petals of dusk,
Ghosts ascend the funicular endlessly;
São Jorge looms on the hill beyond.
It’s told Ulysses and his men once stopped
Along the banks of the Tagus to rest,
To gather up courage at this “allis ubbo,”
This enchanted port. And now from a tower
Across a clothesline maze, azure tiles, and
Alleyways—the garden in his hyacinth gaze.