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  • Foto do escritorJornal O Cola

Lourenço Marques

Written by Carolina Franco
Edited by António Santos

Lourenço Marques is a field of daffodils.

The heart of Mozambique,

The capital that welcomed you,

Gave you a home,

A chance at life.

It was worth every second,

You never regretted it.

Lourenço Marques is a muse

In the eyes of a poet

Who writes under constellations.

A poem told in the dead of the night,

For the moon and the owls to hear.

Nocturnal wildlife,

Living in the silence of their own existence.

Lourenço Marques is the dream.

You walked up the steps of the cathedral,

A white dress so gorgeous

Passersby couldn't help but stare,

The love of your life waiting at the altar,

A bouquet in your hands,

You were the happiest you'd ever been.

Lourenço Marques is the homeland.

Where you turned to for comfort,

Where you had your children,

Distant from Portugal,

So close and yet so far,

But with a family like no other,

You thrived as you’d never before.

Lourenço Marques is sadness.

When you were forced back to Portugal,

After the Revolution that changed our country

And turned carnations into a national symbol,

Taking everything away,

All your hard work deemed unimportant,

And forcing you to start anew.

Lourenço Marques is your heaven.

Pictures don't do it justice.

You share its stories,

Eternal unwavering memories.

You reminisce for days on end,

Never forgetting, always yearning,

Until the day you die.

Lourenço Marques is desiring.

Sitting around a table,

Chatting and drinking,

Looking at the stars

And watching them burn

With each breath you take,

One more painful than the other.

Lourenço Marques is remembering.

Calling old friends,

Joining Facebook Groups,

So you’ll feel like you belong.

The times changed,

It's now called Maputo,

You hate it.

Lourenço Marques is longing.

Is knowing you can't go back,

Even after losing your husband,

Seeing your children fly away,

Feeling left behind,

Away from your city,

And your resolute devotion.

Lourenço Marques is flying.

Like a butterfly migrates,

To overwintering locations,

Taking your heart with it.

Like a martyr apologises

To the world for just existing,

You apologise for betraying yourself.

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