As I stand at the crossroad, between truth and mystery,
I am paralysed by the shortcomings of history,
Rejections of the past rip out my tongue,
I cannot speak, though he is most deserving.
And yes, the inner conflict between heart and mind
is most unnerving.
As humans,
We make predictions,
based on our past,
But surely there can be contradictions?
Tantalising exceptions to oppressive rules
that make us abandon dignity at last…
turning us into careless fools.
Last night I dreamt of a funeral procession.
It marched solemnly towards me,
with pomp and ceremony.
I tried to escape. Was it repression?
But each time I endeavoured to squeeze my body
through the stately pillars,
the works and infrastructure of men suffocated me.
Azulejos, they tell a story,
it reminds me of Porto,
of that kiss that stilled time
as we said goodbye
in São Bento Station.
I wonder whatever became of him,
the night rogue,
the brown eyes,
the lover.
Was he married? I wonder.
Men and their secrets…
So much to ponder.
Some parts of history
are more romantic
when shrouded in mystery.
Whimsical Wordsmith 