“I am as ornate as I am strong” – say all the doors and door handles and walls; twelfth century paint peeling off fraught wrought iron lion door knockers.
Mmmmmm this place is so lush and beautiful.
Can you see the art of it?
Doors crumble while tourist buses rumble on.
With warm crisp summer mountain air every dislodged footfall has history which we dream through. The cacophonic tourists are tossed around by tourismo-machismo men, launched into tiny tuktuks, climbing up steep hills to magnificent monasteries, adding to the art of it.
Foreigners keep the place alive, while those local souls departed an age ago remain nestled in the tunnels of the chapel, chilling the spines of curious tourists stumbling upon them, who quickly back away without turning when the cool of their death wakes them in the face; they know better than to meddle. Instead they retreat to the beauty of the outside, of greens, of turrets, of tiles, of waterfalls gliding over Moorish blue, the humans eyes wide with the love of the lush, welcoming warmth back to their sides.
Sintra, you’re beautiful.
The souls of many to here have climbed.