On Iberian shores, I find delight,
Where Portugal’s fair tongue doth softly flow,
In mellifluous stroke, a graceful flight,
A melody of words that dance and glow.
In Lusitanian lilt, phrases grace,
As fado’s mournful song to life gives breath,
Each vowel, consonant, in its right place,
Conveys the soul’s desires, from life to death.
From Lisbon’s hills to Porto’s ancient streets,
This language weaves a tapestry so fine,
A testament to history’s retreats,
A treasure that doth through the ages shine.
O, Portuguese, thy beauty doth inspire,
In every sweet word, a poet’s heart afire.
Hayden Coombs 