The sun in Abu Dhabi returns to her pink bed behind the sea;
in the background, a song plays: "Gypsy, I'll always be."
Above me, the night crops the sky as I stroll the city's Corniche
and recall Oslo's blue sunset, rising behind its wooden pier.
How in Vienna the sun retreats behind the Danube;
while in London it floats like a ship sailing against the Thames.
I remember Sevilla and its orange sunset, the "Great River" in the middle,
dividing two cities; one for sunrise and one for sunset.
And how many cities does a sunset divide like a river in the horizon?
How I love Tripoli at Day and Beirut at Night,
and loathe Tripoli at Night and Beirut at Day.
How I struggle to choose between the two banks of Paris.
In Toronto, the sunset unmasks the city, a red glow that blends lake
with sky and in Amsterdam the canals slice the horizon
into 160 pieces. At the Corniche, my thoughts and steps reach
an equinox, and I turn to find the night has filled the universe.
I am on the other side of the city. To return,
I have to climb up my bed and cross the horizon once more.