His fame and glory reach its peak
when he wins a laurel wreath
and he wears it perennially, and shows it:
lush award of the success that remains
and not prescribes in spite of not sprouting again.
But as green loses its luxuriance
and triumph degrades, overcame,
he also leaves prestige behind,
without care nor popularity;
the imperturbable aplomb degenerates.
From that unrepeatable apotheosis
feeds itself and still get juice:
licking the leaves -the wounds-,
the decadent decline of the shelter.
From the crown, only stem remains.
And, with the consolation, he only notes
that the gnawing dulls him, distant and absorbed,
that the branch was not laurel, but oleander,
that the regret doesn’t give solace
and the bitter laurel is poisonous, and kills.