Long wisps of fog rise
into thin and vanishing clouds;
from the East an aromatic wind
scatters the flattened and broken-shells-covered-sand
as dampness enters the bones and makes these feet sweat,
still my deep footprints are seen below the boardwalk where I sat.
Lovers hold hands
and seek out their friend
hiding somewhere beyond
the swaying palm trees that seem to engage in a monotonous dance;
they feel that no August night should be without the round, glaring moon...
but before the morning star arrives, they will be wondering if it will appear soon.