The boys take pictures of the pretty girls,
smiles, laughter, and long hair whipped in swirls.
Bright clothes against the blue sky, wide open sea,
the lie youth tells that they are weightless and free.
Swimsuits of blue and white, honor guard of passion.
Blue and white, cloud and sky, soft made a new fashion.
He loves her, but she turns away from him, a fateful grace.
He loves her, but she knows better than let him touch her face.
Dreams of love, of lovers by the sea, brings a certain shame.
She rides on his scooter, what he plans, he is the one to blame.
Beauty draws a line in the sand, a fault between all girls and boys.
He becomes the lycanthrope, no matter her shy and modest poise.
The sun is falling, and she is no Valkyrie as he is now Valhalla bound.
There is no rains in August, no storms for shelter, to soften thirsty ground.
He has the pictures in his camera, of her at play, at her in the deep waters.
Will her cherish them, or pervert them, as all priests curse their brave daughters.