DREAM THIEVES

At the top of the mountain, at its dark zenith,

seasoned by vaginal juices,

the thieves of dreams hid, in caves,

where there were only pieces of slender legs and

dismembered breasts that caressed the fire,

who drank the elixir of success. I do not exist

because the dream thieves stole

my dreams, my ideas, my loves, and my adolescence.

My favorite star or the one I drew with

constellations, it was my preferred star,

but she was a dream stealer.

Now I sleep but not dream

I frown on the accent of life and

I watch my red star as it fades

at dawn...

          when it fades

          the idolatry of the company.

                                                   Carlos Chatham     June 13th 2003

          TENORIO

www.tenorio.barcelona