Quem disse que nada se cria? Gordon Cornframe does it.

Three little beaches, those bitches

Yesterday I came again.
I paid for it and

got foolled by illusion that there was,
I was too,
And was three. And me. As one.
And was a travel too, by two
years and a half, by my old Scotland
with ice and not.
But woke up with bubbles in my nose,
(sounds like those pubs,
even haired ones) that was stock around sea.

What rocks are is around here, where sand is glass.
And between stones
where water went through,
are the only beaches reachable by hands.

by Gordon Cornframe