So on the beach at night, beneath the stars;
white sand, blue moon, black sea; the air is still
but for the whir of slow, girl-cruising cars;
lights beckon from a hundred beach-front bars
where on mosaicked sidewalks prowl and stroll
the men and boys and prostitutes and queens,

the yet-to-be’s, has-been’s and might-have-been’s;
leaves of an almond tree turn red, break, fall
in the small square, but no one sees, for time

hovers suspended here; age is a crime;
in the young country everyone is young,
and self-love is the worship of the sun.

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