At Antwerp's port, where ships dissolve

into the horizon's mist, cultures blend

like brushstrokes on a canvas. I stand 
at the water's edge, feeling the heartbeat

of a city alive with ceaseless motion.

 

The cathedral's spire pierces the sky,

a beacon of faith, tenacity, and aspiration.

Its shadow reaches into my thoughts,

reminding me that dreams endure

like stone against time, building a bridge

between hope and reality.

 

In the bustle of diamonds and docks,

I see the shimmering facets of human effort—

each face a tale, each smile a mystery.

 

This city's pulse quickens my own,

a symphony of striving and stories

shaping its identity—and mine.

 

I recall visiting my cousin here,

an artist drawn to Antwerp's vibrant embrace.

We wandered through cobblestone streets,

sharing stories over Belgian brews and fritjes.

His eyes gleamed with the city's energy,

as if his brush could capture its eclectic charm,

every salient facet a revelatory expedition.

 

And then, a man by the docks catches my eye,

his face hauntingly familiar, though years older—

it’s my cousin, or someone who could have been.

But my cousin moved to Paris long ago.

I wave hesitantly; he doesn’t respond.

Was it truly him, or just another tale

woven into Antwerp’s enigmatic rhythm?

 

The city's heartbeat grows louder,

its stories murmur unanswered questions—

and I walk away, my mind restless,

wondering how much of the city I truly know,

and how much of myself remains a mystery.