Verso de vento (gl – en)

Todo esto, esta tinta derrochada rompendo a pureza do baleiro, este branco manchado de trazos azuis, cheguei un día a crer firmemente que era o mapa da miña alma, unha beleza lánguida como unha rede destinada a capturar sustancias comezando pola letra a: amor, admiración, afecto, aprobación…

 Por sorte vén a vida coas suas esquinas afiadas, e xa ela redistribúe o espazo de xeito
equitativo, 

Ás veces, non se ve xa o camiño entre as silvas, entón abro de par en par a ventá e lle ofrezo a alma ao vento, pégolle un posit que di: “non ves que os meus pantalóns cortos non son aptos para a ruta?” o vento, con indiferencia, busca un paso estreito, ou un obxecto lanzal no que seguir ensaiando melodías. Soa unha nota sostida na que distingo o verso “camiñar e sangrar son a mesma cousa” creo que está dicindo que non a quere.

Tanta tinta derramada, quizais para cubrirche os ollos de luz e ocultar que son a auga mansa da que te tes que coidar. Tanto corazón aí arriba, como unha bandeira peregrinando aos ventos: só che pido que bombees, como a máis humilde bomba dunha depuradora. 

Non te fíes desta alfombra con adxectivos, ao final todo o texto pesa o que un vello grafiti da xuventude nunha rúa estreita que os cans fixeran sua, ou que a humanidade deixara desatendida.

A Verse of Wind

All this, all this ink squandered, breaking the purity of emptiness, this white stained with blue strokes; there was a time when I firmly believed it to be the map of my soul, a languid beauty like a net designed to capture substances beginning with the letter A: amour, admiration, affection, approval…

Fortunately, life comes along with its sharp corners, and rearranges the space, distributing it more equitably.

Sometimes the path can no longer be seen through the brambles. So I fling the window wide open and offer my soul to the wind. I stick a Post-it note to it saying: “Can’t you see my shorts aren’t suitable for the trail?” The wind, indifferent, looks for a narrow passage, or some slender object on which to keep rehearsing its melodies. A sustained note sounds, and I make out the line: “walking and bleeding are one and the same thing”. I think it’s saying it doesn’t want what’s being offered.

So much ink spilled, perhaps to fill your eyes with light and conceal the fact that I am the still water you need to watch out for. So much heart up there, like a flag wandering through the winds: all I ask of you is that you keep pumping, like the humblest pump in a water treatment plant.

Don't trust this carpet woven with adjectives. In the end, the whole text weighs no more than an old graffiti from youth, on a narrow street the dogs had made their own, or that humanity had simply left unattended.