THE FIRST DAISY

Under a Laurel tree I slept,

I dreamed beautiful dreams. When I met you...

                                            I went crazy.

The two loves travelled on different paths

that meet and wait and

                               kiss each other.

Dafne is no longer a Laurel tree, she is Dafne  and

Apollo has got drunk, committed suicide  and

has withered like daisies in the

                              wind of Advent.

Carefully, I leave the square and the frame.

                         An epic love that is not blown away by the wind,

                                         nor by the passing of time.

I am not angry about the vendetta anymore,

because the circle of perfection wrinkles  and

gets too large with age.

It becomes a sphere desperate with restlessness.                          

Life belongs to the winners, strange people who,

                 in fear, fart and

                                 find

                                    escape in the hunt,

                                          weaving their net like spiders.

We, the losers, face fear

                              by hitchhiking (on a dark road).

                                               The doubt...

Observing with all certainty the minotaur’s horn.

See you soon infinite sadness! Flesh colored meat...

                                                 Chamber of evil

where I seat my sincere feelings.

The heart has spoken and the lips have been silent.

The word is no longer Gutemberg’s...

                                             It belongs to the lovers of Teruel,

who speak though signs  and face the past

                                       and the future.

The present is only songs and brushstrokes

that transmit the Impressionist youth, following

                               the trail, the path, the track,

                             the arcaic mark of the passing time that flees and vanishes and

                            Cronos cannot it stop and separate.

That is why I make you this present,

                         this gift that comes from the swamp,

hidden in blind sight, vertical of a spiral...

From the most absolute denial of being, I write verses to Electra,

                                                 to the daughter of Agammenon

                                                 who I like a lot.

             Carlos Chatham     20-3-2003

                    TENORIO

www.tenorio.barcelona