Cuentas

The white city shines with surfers.
 "Uma bica por favor."
"Um Moscatel por favor."
"Vamos lá! Vamos lá! Let's go, let's go!"
Cigarette embers glide past grandfathers 
- who are hand in hand with generations.        
A majestic elevator lifts spirits and troubles, as the river waves.
An old gypsy dances, shouts out, playing a tambourine, while an empty wine bottle rolls away, ending another story.

Perhaps the thing about the city are the noises. 

There are many. 

Maybe they are all stories, fragments of things we can bearly hear, tales we invent ?

Clarinet from the roof top, 

bits of "real"conversation, 

broken bottle from somewhere, 

car horn, 

fado.

It weeps, 

It screams, 

makes all kinds of noises

- stories? 

Car horns are the instruments,

 not always in rhythm,                                                                         

not  always in tune - 

but  always playing,

always making music. 

If car horns are instruments, than birds are the singers, vocalists. 

Perhaps the city's music is a cry for help ?

Perhaps it's singing blues ? 

Perhaps it's a joyous song ?

Perhaps it's just music ?

Perhaps they're just stories ?