Remembering jagged cobblestones, white and golden streets,

Old Europe,

Warm sun,

Lisbon with her streets lined with trees of the darkest green, their limbs gently grasping you to dance along swirling patterned pavements

Tricking the eyes into thinking all is lined in gold

While really all is lined in crumbling history

Age of discovery unfurls itself into a discovery of the present

Biting into such life, and such memory, has left the taste that dissolves with bitter slowness

To witness such human life, to be apart of a world that I claim merely a molecule of,

Yet all together again, a single myriad of everything at once,

There,

What yet was

The Rain begins.