London by Moonlight

At coffee-stalls men boast of girls,

cap workless days with wasted nights;

hands in torn pockets try to rouse

desires now drugged by long despair.

Beyond the railings, in the park,

the wind caresses restless trees,

deep-rooted, ready for those storms

which buildings have long banished hence.

The grass, depressed by heavy feet

and stifled by the city's dust,

degenerates, breeds life in death,

like thirsty mosses on the moon.

And lonely girls in narrow beds

watch the sly moon creep up their thighs,

too poor to wed, too much afraid

to meet the men at coffee-stalls,