A vigilant gust prostrates itself
Paying homage to the palm,
Rustling weed beneath the belt
And among the glass on which sarong;
Fluttering like plain-swept laurel aches -
The tide comes marching,
Now it won\'t be long.
Passing notes rapture among
A still-imaged life as if they were real,
Prolonging illusory, synthetic waves
Coalescing breaks into the glare
To show that what we see is not what is;
In the tide comes marching,
Now run, or stay there.