Perpetually confused,
Summer at the Cape is beaten by persistent tides and nostalgic sandbars.
The Mexican was sadly askew,
Waves were darkened and the bivalve heart,
Immolated stands helpless,
Maybe small sounds relieve it´s broken silence,
He was the cumulus cloud becoming stone
After thousands of grasps and caresses of seagull feathers.
Farewell Rodrigo,
Chances are Pollyanna and succumb in your lips.
Exile used to be tender,
Tonight´s shore was grief
And it´s you,
Tip of an old peninsula,
Blown into the plankton,
Recycled as a dune.
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