Lisbon is
one land away
and as far as I know its
streets paved with gold.
Its orange roses
rise up a step-ladder
one vine at a time
and on the horizon
one's eyes discern
Iago climb and climb
(or is he called Diego?) ,
his angels singing
one swig of whiskey
so you can visit this
one land away
this Lisbon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem