Written and published in 2009 on my first blog
Son as tres da mañá no cuarto do que fora o meu apartamento neste bairro alto da capital
cando menos é iso o que calculo, espertei hai cinco minutos enchoupado en suor
e non lembro ter escoitado en soños a chamada á primeira oración do día
ademáis afóra segue a mesma claridade das lámpadas da noite
e un canto de paxaros nocturnos que por un intre me descoloca no mencer
Son as tres da mañá e decátome de que os dous cobertores para esta madrugada de outono
foron abrigo de máis, e as sabas xa están empapadas, vou a cociña, bebo auga
pasando á beira do radiador de gas vexo que os mistos queimados seguen no chan
onte estaba nervioso de máis para conseguir acender o queimador
por iso o reforzo do segundo edredón, e esta sede intempestiva a cortarme a noite
Son as tres da mañá e teño tempo dabondo para cair nos lugares comúns do meu pensamento
as voltas, que nunca te devolven ao mesmo ponto de partida e toda esa trangallada
como sempre, desaproveitara o tempo que tivera para facerme á idea
de que os post-it son de papel e os meses de chuvia fanlles cair as letras de tinta indeleble
decaido por teren caido tamén todos os je t’aime que pegara co meu cuspe na sua pel
Eran as tres e cuarto e volvín onda ti, aínda que me fora difícil lembrarte, o cabelo mudara
mas os ollos seguían combinándose sedutoramente co timbre tranquilo da tua voz
volvín á cama e do teu corpo collín só unha man, agarreime a ela
e mentres ti soñabas eu soñei que agardabamos xuntos a fin do mundo
das seis da mañá, de volta ao teu Centre Ville onde as cancións de berce dos klaxon
recordarante mañá os paxaros desta noite, na que aínda que non o saibas
prometinche morder a tua língua antes de deixar a miña alma escapar pola boca
e colárseche aos pés e ás plumas do teu traxe de bailarina para que non poida
xa separarme de ti…
sen dor
Farewell to Algeria
It’s three in the morning in the room of what used to be my apartment in this upper district of the capital
at least that’s what I reckon, I woke up five minutes ago drenched in sweat
and I do not remember hearing in dreams the call to the first prayer of the day
moreover, the same clarity of the night lamps continues outside
and a song of nocturnal birds that for a while displaces me in the morning
It’s three in the morning and I realize that the two blankets for this autumn morning
they were too warm, and the sheets are already soaked, I go to the kitchen, I drink water
passing by the gas radiator I see that the burnt matches are still on the floor
Yesterday I was too nervous to get the burner on
that’s why the reinforcement of the second quilt, and this untimely thirst to interrupt my night
It’s three in the morning and I have plenty of time to fall into the common places of my thinking
the turns, which never return you to the same starting point and all that strangulation
as always, I had wasted the time I had had to come to terms with the idea
that post-it notes are made of paper and the months of rain cause the letters in indelible ink to fall off
Decayed because all the je t’aime that I had stuck with my saliva on her skin have also fallen
It was a quarter past three and I came back to you, even though it was hard for me to remember you, the hair had changed
but the eyes continued to combine seductively with the calm tone of your voice
I went back to bed and I took only one hand from your body, I held on to it
and while you were dreaming I dreamed that we were waiting for the end of the world together
at six in the morning, back to your Center Ville where the klaxon lullabies
remind you tomorrow of the birds of this night, in which even if you don’t know it
I promised you to bite your tongue before I let my soul escape through my mouth
and sneak up on your feet and the feathers of your ballerina costume so I can
no longer separate myself from you…
without pain
abel abilheira 