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.
