Porto (5)
Monday, April 18, 2011
Poem Invitation Money
The tapestry of our children decorated the rooms with interior scenes tents: a tea poured by a Bedouin and a camel curious face peering through the back door as the sun set behind the dunes. The tapestry of our childhood, notwithstanding those steamy scenes of desert, ended up ruined by the humidity of homes. We lived in a port city and gray, with longshoremen, coal dust and smell of sardine guts. There was also a time when estarcían the walls with a roller Chinese relief. Light on a bridge crossing a triangular oriental straw hat on his shoulders a burden divided into two bundles of equal weight suspended at the ends of a pole. Again and again, one looked to where you looked, you saw the same scene repeated endlessly. Taste for the exotic that was like a belated imitation of trends in the halls of good taste. It is known that the poorest and badly imitating late refinement of aristocracies. C. fell on the shoulders cardigan. Once she reaches the end of the day on the banks of the Douro rises from the water a stream of moisture that transcends everything. We had risen from the terrace where we let ourselves be hypnotized by the wine and walkers. We join their profiles gradually turned shadows on the estuary of the river, where it was going the last dregs light and golden, where coals were lit as filaments. Knee, I surrendered to the plebeian taste for sunsets. I got my own chinoiserie. An Oriental rug, why not, and Porto. 
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