O Vello chochea;
verteu nas miñas pequenas mans
cubertas de chagas
esta terra delicada
aflixida de desnutrición e arrasada pola seca:
a cada movemento ameaza
con desfacérseme en area
acabando con todo o delicado ecosistema
Había moitos pares de mans
grandes, robustas
e escolle as miñas,
afeitas só ao anestésico
contacto do cristal frío e humido
Así agora malamente
sóplolle as plumas que afogan
arrinco cos dentes o musgo seco
cubro co meu cuspe branco
as feridas áridas do chan
en fin, un traballo bastante pobre
no que penosamente me arrastro
cuns resultados claramente mediocres
Sen a lisa perfección do círculo;
claramente non toma boas decisións
o Vello
The Charge
The Old Man is growing senile;
He poured into my small hands,
covered in sores,
this delicate earth,
afflicted by malnutrition and ravaged by drought.
At every movement
it threatens to crumble into sand,
bringing down its fragile ecosystem.
There were so many pairs of hands,
large, strong ones,
yet he chose mine,
accustomed only to the anaesthetic touch
of cold, damp glass.
So now, clumsily,
I blow away the feathers that smother it,
tear away the dry moss with my teeth,
cover the parched wounds of the soil
with my white spit.
In short,
a rather poor piece of work,
through which I labour, inching myself along,
with results that are plainly mediocre
Without the flawless perfection of the circle;
the Old Man, it seems,
no longer makes good decisions.
abel abilheira 