I have lived in this foreign country long, perhaps longer then I should. Many seasons I have seen, my hair is grey brow wrinkled from seeking understanding. I know their culture and sing their songs. But I came here as an adult, I have read Fernando Pessoa, know Fado and can talk about my favourite singers. Yet, this culture is not in my soul it does not echo in my heart. I wanted to be a part of my new Iberian country, but when I remember a lullaby my mother used to sing a cold Nordic winter night; when guests have gone home and the party is over, I know I’m forever a pretender. I have lived here long, too long, but if I go to back to the old country I will be a stranger walking in a town where no one knows my name and I’ll dream of my mythical Portugal.
