There is a town, far in the west,
Cradled in 7 hills, adorned by magical sunsets.
Dotted by rusty alleys, lookout points galore,
Pavements serene, bright, laid out in white stone.
Up and down, winding, are it's streets, vintage trams chug, alongside half a million heart beats.
Every corner, alley, street, alike,
Offer the seeker, quaint respite.
All that one is supposed to do,
pause, while the moment is still anew.
Mornings are slow, late more so,
a pastel, a coffee, to sip or to go.
Tourists and residents, a grandma with her cane,
fancy no frenzy, neither show any shame.
Afternoons are lazy, laid back more so,
A meal, or perhaps a book on a miradouro.
Pitter patter of tourists steps aside
Twilight is here, and the time stops,
as one looks out, from the hill tops.
Vistas of gold, everywhere the eyes go,
it's not just a sight, but a vision to behold.
- August 2017