When grief is of such a kind,
such that it cannot be articulated.
A million oceans converge into one place,
stoking something inside you,
your body convulses, without warning, without control,
taking your mind to a place,
from where there will never be any return.
As death approached,
a thief took pieces of her memory,
bit by bit, every night.
It was all or nothing.
Memories of joy sitting next to ones of great sorrow,
melded together during the train journey we call life.
As the last stop approached, she knew what it meant.
Years after she came back as someone else,
she could never quite shake a childhood memory,
magical, mysterious and from another place.
He was a stranger.
He had my father's high forehead.
A nose occupying his face with confidence.
Fingers twitched in a certain way when he was uncertain.
There is a misguided vogue in the idea of purgatory.
Romanticised, as a rich tourist might after visiting a poor slum.
My conversation with this stranger,
met more to me than it ever will for him,
because of the unresolved,
which shall always and forever be.
Once upon a time,
I was ill,
I now know why.
A single brittle photograph,
the only record of the year it went wrong.
I look back at the million miles I walked with you,
my heart neither tired nor weary,
but ready to walk a million more,
to be by you.
Is that a fairground,
in the distance,
with its lights so bright.
The mist rests,
as a haze on the green mountains,
undisturbed by Rua Sá Ferreira's chaos,
An eagle flies so high,
not as troubled as I,
on majestic wings,
carrying an old world charm,
belonging to the ages.
when motivation comes,
from misfortune of a kind,
that is a tragedy,
in two acts.