pai imperfecto (gl – en)

non souben ensinar o amor, 
só adoitaba ser exemplo cumprindo as obrigas
mostrei o desapego, o desarraigo
e finalmente desapegáronse 
era un pai imperfecto, 
só importaba o afecto, tan escondido
tralos deberes, que non puideron velo
agora quero deixar o traballo,
sentar á porta do supermercado
onde elas compran a cola do desapego
e barrer ca língua as baldosas 
cun cartón marrón coa miña demanda
“oubliez tout ce qui n'a pas été dit”
se aínda falades a nosa língua
mulleres que andaredes batendo na vida 
polo mundo adiante, cargadas de indiferenza
como un peixe que deixa os ovos na corrente
desperto nas noites co que evito ver de día
son un papá desherdado, un papá sen fillas
o amor era unha novela que se acabou un día
na porta do súper, agardo súper delgado
apenas me alimento, so lambo as baldosas
no reverso da cartolina de mendigo
“even if I close my eyes je vous vois encore à mes côtés”
non hai máis aprendizaxe que a indiferenza
despois dos miles de contos para durmir
dos biberóns e os cueiros 
pasou algo através da miña pel que se metera na vosa?
só o desapego deste último Mohicano 
que non foi quen de entregar todo o amor que tiña
e agora nas noites cúbrome co meu cartón de lágrimas e aquel residuo abrasa
un fracaso de papá, comesto polo acedo esquencemento 
meus cariños, meus alevíns de maragota, miñas fillas afastadas 
a soidade aplástame e leva o aire
non quero máis…
só sentar á porta do supermercado, escualido malnutrido, apenas xa un ser humano
un día baixarán os ollos e non recoñecerán
esta alma escachada que xa non consegue máis
apartar a verdade, a inmensa dor de non vos ter
mírase mellor canto máis pecho os ollos
e canto máis avanza a noite máis o insomnio me cobre

imperfect father

I didn't know how to teach love,
just used to set an example of fulfilling my obligations
I showed detachment, uprooting
and finally they left
I was an imperfect father,
all that mattered was affection but it was so hidden
behind duties that they could not see it
now I want to quit my job
and to sit down by the supermarket door
where they bought the detachment glue
and sweep the tiles with my tongue
showing a brown card with my demand
“oubliez tout ce qui n'a pas été dit”
if you still speak our language
women fighting for life
around the world, laden with indifference
like a fish that lays its roes in the ocean current
I wake up at night with what I avoid seeing during the day
I’m a disinherited dad, a daughterless dad
love was a novel that ended one day
at the supermarket door, a super skinny man is waiting for
I barely feed myself, I just lick the tiles
on the back of my beggar card
"incluso si cierro los ojos je vous vois encore à mes côtés"
there is no more learning than detachment
after thousands of bedtime stories
of baby bottles and nappies
did something pass through my skin that has embedded in yours?
only the disregard of this last Mohican
unable to deliver all the love he had
and now in the nights I cover myself with my cardboard of tears and that residue burns me
A failure of Dad, eaten by the acid callousness 
my loves, my young fishes, my distant daughters 
loneliness crushes me and takes my breath away
I don't want any more ...
I just want to sit down by the supermarket door, a malnourished emaciated, barely a human being
one day they will lower their eyes and won’t recognize
this broken soul that no longer reaches
to set aside the truth, the immense pain of not having you
the more I close my eyes, the better it looks
and the further the night progresses, the more insomnia covers me.