First it was the Fado
in Porto, down by the bridge,
of the River Douro.
We drank heavy port-wine.
Later comes Flamenco,
Toledo, thundery,
wound in by the Tajo.
Only had a single sherry.
By logic the Tango
sometime in Buenos Aires,
by the sluggish Rio de la Plata.
The wine was Malbec of Mendoza.
Once the so-called Blues
in northern Chicago
by the sea-sized lake.
With tearful beer.
Never-ending ‘Beat' music —
that was Hamburg
by the channels of the Alster.
A dry caraway schnapps.
Some Day My Boat Will Come,
Was Magdeburg-Sudenburg,
The Elbe Basin
And vermouth by the bottle.
La Paloma

on Birch Island near Berlin
in Lake Briese.
A brandy or two.
A Psalm
in January Budapest,
the Chain Bridge, the Danube,
apricot brandy (Palinka).
Folksong and Bagpipes
in ancestral Plovdiv,
the low bed of the Mariza
and heavy Mavrud.

And once even a chorale
in Tübingen
by the shipless Neckar.
Holy communion wine.

English translation by Mick Standen & Jo Tudor