A Portuguese Lullaby is What I am After

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There is a lullaby, a Portuguese lullaby, that wafts through the cobbled streets, wedges itself in the punctuation of voices, the lines of faces. It comes without demand, pretense, the need for receipt as if a cathedral is calling the dark into a coronation of lit candles. This lullaby is fastened to loss, longing, abelia, rockroses, the hillsides of sheep grazing. Fastened to days with the angular of discontents, yet beyond them.

There is a lullaby calling, calling, calling to you and to me.