Her bright caftan flows around her body
seated in the middle of a crowd.
Her feet in jaunty sandals still exposed.
Her tune – not the drama of fado, simply
her breath, her face, the simple but bright
melancholy of her melodica. She has known fate –
she has known it as Lisbon has known
fires and near-destruction in succession.
Her sockets are fused, she survives still.
Victim only in words. There is an oasis about her.
She is an oasis. Someone loves her.