The sad charm of twilight: Neither seas water, nor rains water - Paperback

by Camelia A. Davtyan (Translator), Dan C. David (Author)

When reading Dan C David's prolific writing, you would suspect that he falsified his identity card, as no young writer could keep up with him, one of those few, who prioritize their opus, convinced that he had found his identity in writing, a fulfillment that comes beyond the ordinary meaning of things, from the divine that values the quality, the perennial, the expressiveness, and does not appreciate cheap scams. This means he is an influential author (his writing makes him influential and does not need an official seal), uncompromising in his well-cultivated field of work, with high standards of understanding, judging, and interpreting literature, happily transposed in a poetry that differs from the questionable influences and cheap verbalism of the poetry commonly published today.
The poet's nostalgia is that of a return to his origins, to the purity of the grove adorned by morning dew, with the lazy sun strewn with storks and blackbirds, the nostalgia of a Transylvanian for whom Santa Monica is not a place of fulfillment in the autumn of life: I dreamed of autumn in which the last worries / would be the corn to be picked, the vineyard to be turned, / the health of the children, the peace of the elders, / the weddings of the girls, / and the completion of the bridge over the misunderstandings/ of the year that goes down to sleep. "
Old age does not forgive anyone, none the children of yesterday, but it "does not come slowly, tormented, crawling among the years like a cat," but cleverly sneaks, like a cunning fox, appearing from behind the evening tree, making the reunion with a fairy of youth, now like a greedy butler with a huge thump, turn into a painful and lucid reality, foreign to the dreams of yesteryear: "You saw me for a moment; / you passed on / as proud as ever. / Maybe you didn't recognize me; / I didn't care, I didn't feel sorry. / I looked at you for a long time through my expanded diopters. / I was sure, just like me, you forgot to count; (Clock time)