Cando navegabamos no Gran Sol
E os bonitos tinxían a popa de vermello
Nas horas mortas da tardiña
Saía á cuberta do barquiño minúsculo
Percorría os trinta e cinco metros de eslora
Esculcando o horizonte
Non achaba rastro da terra
Unha liña contínua rodeándonos
Illándonos do mundo
Eu, que non era pescador
Dos trescentos metros de profundidade
Daquel caladoiro extraía a substancia
Que había dar corpo aos meus versos
In the fishing ground
When we were sailing on the Sole Bank
And the albacore dyed the stern red
In the downtime of the evening
I used to go out on the deck of the tiny little boat
I covered the thirty-five meters in length
Looking at the horizon
There was no trace of land
Just a continuous line surrounding us
Isolating ourselves from the world
Me, who was not a fisherman
Of the three hundred meters of depth
From that fishing ground I extracted the raw material
That would give body to my verses
abel abilheira 