There were lots of times I didn't love Lisbon,
didn't know how to love her at dusk
on a work day, when she was used up,
slow and dirty, and
the deep-set sorrow of the world,
my first and most
precocious intuition, traveled,
lights on, in the almost empty buses. Great city
of the missing, so often I didn't have
the vigor to take pleasure in
your small, deserted
gardens. When in the cafés
They were already disconnecting the coffee machines
and from the other end of the line no one
would ever answer
the way I wanted, how often
did I fail to find the place and serenity
to forget and sleep? Even so,
I didn't do you justice, Lisbon, when
I complained of you: I wasn't a good example,
I had always felt a bit uneasy in the bed of life.