By Luis G. Dato

Here in the grass grows not longer
The eye to soothe, tired feet to cool –
For hills are blocks and masonry,
For lake exiguous swimming pool.

There are no haunts – around the corner
Death gasps in screeching brakes
Or uns on wheels – the giddy crowd
All momentary wakes.

On every curve cat-like one sees
Blend of the common and the strange
No dream, no dream, but streets and noise
And the mobility of change.

The city is a city, always new,
Fountain of endless, bubbling youth
Far to the night – at dawn a woman
Minus her paint, and old forsooth.

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