LISBOA
Full of grey and white buildings this port,
New houses abandoned half-way,
Ruins that crumble to nought
And columns one sees turning grey.
And the earthquake’s piles of rubble
Still lie there on all sides.
Salvage and clear? Why trouble?
Underneath, the danger still hides.
Some mansions obliquely truncated,
Others missing a section of wall.
Lisboa’s life is located
In the past: lasting, but no peace at all.
Was this ever before a city’s fate?
A ghost whose life has ceased,
Strangely loyal to its former state
Since the ash rained down on the feast?