Motion

Wind whistles harshly from afar,
night settles gently, au revoir
dear Portugal, dear distant star,
each day filled up my memoir
with fragments of divided beams,
with rock-formations, quite bizarre,
with ocean waves and short-lived streams
of water flowing as in dreams,
a never ending love, it seems,
another round, the earth gets drowned,
and in the distant is unbound
a nightjar calling out his sound;
sweet memories still float around.