Museum of Azulejos Photographer

Martemyanov

To fly would now be in Lisbon,
from cold and gloomy Moscow,
leaving your phone sad,
forgetting about business and calls.
Entangled in the labyrinths of fate,
with a stranger listening to the surf,
seeing off the ships in the night,
that sail not to you, not with me.
Unfamiliar to hear the language,
where love replaces words,
remembering all of what is so unaccustomed,
to Bairro Alto until morning.
In the narrow streets met the dawn,
smile to the day,
let the soul does not accept,
to worship at Teja Christ.
Goodbye to go dancing,
corridinho in a quiet cafe,
for a long time then remember,
these nights, in cold Moscow.
As I am far from Lisbon,
but similar everywhere cities,
only the heart of the mile chime
that sounds over Moscow in the morning.

Photographer photographer Music Art Draughtsman