Perdo o tempo
Levo as agullas á perfección das estatuas
Dez e dez dos mundos mortos
Como a corda que ata a cabra
•
Hai un universo por descubrir
Limando as horas na falida imitación
Do mil veces emulado
A perfección, límite do coñecemento
•
Na plantilla dun soneto
Escribo palabras ao chou
Co único condicionante da rima
Morte Sorte Porte Corte
Marta Sarta Carta Parta
Xa teño as fibras da corda
So queda o traballo de tecido
•
Nada fóra do circulo de pasto
Só a sonoridade do canto
Podería tirar algún proveito
▪︎
The rope
•
I waste my time
I take the needles to the perfection of the statues
Ten past ten of the dead worlds
Like the rope that ties the goat
•
There is a universe to discover
Filing the hours in the failed imitation
of what has already been emulated
A million times
Perfection, the limit of knowledge
•
In the template of a sonnet
I write words at random
With the only condition of rhyme
Die, Shy, Thigh, High
King, String, Wing, Fling
I already have the fibers of the rope
All that remains is the work of weaving
•
Nothing outside the pasture circle
Only for the melody of a song
Could it be of any use
