il y a des jours où même l’arc-en-ciel n’a que des gammes de gris pour s’exprimer
Na porta da casa, arrogante e altivo
agardaba por min o imbécil
que pensaba ter deixado
por sempre, vinte anos atrás.
Ao pé das escaleiras do avión
alí estaba para recibirme de volta
*
malia as ganas de cuspirlle
que de súpeto me entraran
pensei ‘pobre ignorante
que segue musculoso
a arrastrar polo chan a carga
voluntario ignorante da roda’
*
logo avancei nos corredores estreitos
as portas dos cuartos fechadas
da cociña escoitábase o testo
dunha pota fervendo ao lume
anque non recoñecía os olores,
as lámpadas, as cortinas, a alfombra
*
Nin sequera flotaba o acento suave
que debuxara a fronteira borrosa
do meu fogar imaxinario
só quedara aquel entullo abandonado.
Na rúa unha meniña chamou: “papá!”
mais tamén iso desaparecera
Welcome
At the door of the house, arrogant and haughty, the idiot I thought I had left behind for good, twenty years ago, was waiting for me. At the foot of the plane stairs he was there to welcome me back
despite the sudden urge to spit on him, I thought: poor ignorant, still dragging the load along the ground with his muscles, voluntarily ignorant of the existence of the wheel
then I advanced through the narrow corridors, the doors of the rooms were closed; from the kitchen I could hear the sound of a pot boiling on the fire, although I did not recognize the smell, the lamps, the curtains, the carpet
Not even the soft accent that had drawn the blurred border of my imaginary home was left. All that remained was that long ago abandoned debris. On the street, a little girl called out, «Dad!». That had also disappeared.
abel abilheira 