August, month of the bodies yearning for breeze, virgin wave and the moon.

Children we reckoned your fetching tidings alien

Faces invisible of Selene

Disguises of Aeolus uprooting sand dunes.

Teenagers we counted only erotic panselenes

Emigrating at night on the horse of a fairy tale

Painting the floating vision of a shy orange

That only once you could bear to observe.

We have, since, journeyed across countless unhealed circles

In thick-flowing pine green or pink rose aromas

Consuming secretly the unforgettable moments we carved on lotus fruit

Ebbing and flowing

In our love of a pale vision of an immortal rising Moon

Pausing lustfully on each of its twenty-eight reflections.