By the shallow pools of seawater slowly being filled by the incoming tide
is the chef of our century preparing soup and tipping it into sea.
The soup washes up against the sand green and floating,
Such a waste yet so destined to be that way.
Desired maidens brush back their hair while sportsmen try to court them
They don't know and entertainment wants to find itself
Worried men's minds can't interrupt the need
So flowing through the waves the observer goes as the couples split
The water full of food
Beauty hits the sand nude
Wooden boards that skip across the water
Plates carrying us for we are edible
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário