The look that robes and beautifies
those Portuguese old façades
makes it seem that so many rooms
inside end with doors way up high
that lead to the street and yet are
there under guard by balconies,
strangely narrow, strangely tight
so that on them no one ever sits
and greets loitering wanderers,
a potpourri of strolling witnesses,
with a bobbing feet’s held-out nod,
caught above in between the iron rods.
Wrought as a mask only to be dropped.
For vagrant souls from long-dried seas.
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