New Yorker In Lisbon

In Lisbon's embrace, a bodega unfurls

Its fragrant tendrils, a world within worlds.

Old souls perched on stools, time's gentle pearls,

Watching life's river meander and swirl.

Soccer's symphony drifts through the air,

Punctuated by laughter's bright staccato.

A stark contrast to New York's frenetic flair,

Where ambition's march crushes all in its path.

Here, moments are savored like fine vintage wine,

Each sip a reminder to cherish the now.

While in Manhattan's canyons, humans realign

Their values, pursuits bereft of human touch.

Greed is the lodestar, money the sole creed,

In that concrete jungle where none have time to heed

The whispers of conscience, the pleas to life unbind

From the gilded treadmill that shackles heart and mind.

Lisbon's bodega, a sanctuary of calm,

Where life's simple joys are the ultimate balm.

In its cozy confines, we can exhale, unwind,

And rediscover the peace too often left behind.

A respite from the hustle, the incessant race,

To pause, breathe deeply, and re-embrace

Our shared humanity, the bonds that transcend

The hollow pursuits that erode soul and rend.