Let me not tell a tale, nor proffer deceit.
I’ll speak truth of a sweet summer thrill
aside slow Rio Tejo, just beneath
Ponte 25 de abril.
Under the watchful gaze of Cristo Rei,
a kit of pigeons, portly and plump, flocked
my feet eyeing my indulgence that day –
pastel de nata I had again opt.
That cinnamon-dusted sweet custard tart
had pleased my palate each foregoing day.
Lisboa, she stole this poor poet’s heart
despite her birds that pirate treats away.
For then, I chose not to record the crime.
Now resonant, I pluck it ripe from my mind.