busco un raio de luz
e un airiño fresco
por onde as rodas da silla
nos afasten do aséptico
almacén de persoas
a calor da miña man
na sua pel fina
borra por un intre
a soidade da prisión
e cun sorriso pillo
ensíname humanidade
falamos do pasado
o futuro non ten engado
segue a coidar
do seu territorio
veciños, amigas, netos
qué é de todos eles?
…
pasan os meses
que logo suman anos
deteriórase a saúde
a vida convertida nun laio
xa non quere sair ao frío
a cada paso máis
durmida
a cada semana máis
allea
…
para que a morte
non se perda
coma faro na noite
a pintura branca
das paredes de Paliativos
márcalle o camiño
por onde marcharán
as tres derradeiras
imperceptibles exhalacións
e os ataques de ansiedade
e as moscas
entrarán no oco
deixado pola sua alma
…
orballo, xiada
neboeiro baixo
vento
pasan pola finca
de madrugada,
e non topan palliña de herba
folla, raíz, talo, rego
onde asir o desespero
nin sequera as duras
follas do limoeiro
toda a terra da finca
marchou nas uñas
de Loliña para que plante
tomates
alá onde agora estea
a horta é un deserto de pedra
dura ausencia
de hortelán e macela
elegy to Lolinha
I look for a beam of light
and a breath of fresh air
where the wheels of the chair
take us away from the aseptic
people warehouse
the warmth of my hand
on his thin skin
erase for a moment
the loneliness of prison
and with a mischievous grin
she teaches me humanity
we talk about the past
the future has no charm
she continues to care
of its territory
neighbors, friends, grandchildren
what about all of them?
…
the months go by
that soon add up to years
health deteriorates
life became a lament
she no longer wants to go out in the cold
with every step more
asleep
with every week more
distant
…
the white paint
on the walls of Palliative Care
marks the path
like a beacon in the night
so that death doesn’t get lost
this path where the last three
imperceptible exhalations
will go away
and so anxiety attacks
and flies
will occupy the gap
left by his soul
…
dew, frost
low fog
wind
they pass by the farm
at dawn
and find no blade of grass
leaf, root, stem, furrow
where to grab despair
not even the firm
lemon leaves
all the soil of the farm
is gone on Lolinha’s fingernails
for her to plant tomatoes
wherever she is now
the garden is a desert of stone
hard absence
of mint and chamomile
abel abilheira 