Porto

When the fog recedes
and the wind retreats behind
faded pastel walls
memories are obliterated by
white, source-less light
drowned in the lapping of the sea
and the cry of the gulls
the bells ringing from the train
passing on the ridge
the boats pushing
through the purple Douro
echoing histories of their labors,
beneath the sweltering suns
of Rio de Janeiro and Luanda
the spawn of Empire
whose implications never swim
amongst my thoughts
my wine-drenched consciousness
my will to drop my oars
unfurl my sails
and rest
the squadrons of birds above me
fighting in proxy
for the world of peace below.

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