Propiedades da arxila (gl – en)

A poesía é como unha presada de barro
pódeslle sacar a forma soñada
incluso permite certos abusos 
como contar as miserias dun día calquera
sorteando as herbas da acera
o peso dunha grava suficiente
para vencer o xeonllo

podería cubrir con mel as feridas
para que nunca máis se foran
ou erguerme cedo outra mañá
confiando na forza da natureza
que orballa esas pingas de fe
sobre cada un dos seus seres

Properties of clay

Poetry is like a handful of clay
you can shape it into the form you dream of
it even allows certain abuses
like telling of the miseries of any given day
dodging the weeds on the pavement
the weight of a piece of gravel
enough to bring you to your knees

I could cover the wounds with honey
so they would never go away
or get up early another morning
trusting in the strength of nature
that drizzles those drops of faith
over each and every one of its beings

Seis de agosto (gl – en)

Seis de agosto,
ao cruzar as vías 
encontrei moras

xusto antes
sufrira un pequeno baleiro
ao non atopar as flores de cardo
do pasado abril

collín unhas cantas 
sete, oito

e tres espiñas pequenas 
que fun sacando 
mentres apuraba
cara á estación

as bagas aínda tiñan 
o verde xusto 
da infancia

subín ao tren 
trinta segundos
antes da partida


Sixth of August

crossing the railway tracks
I found blackberries

just before that
I had felt a small emptiness
when I could not find
the thistle flowers
from last April

I picked a few
seven, eight

and three tiny thorns
which I pulled out one by one
as I hurried
towards the station

the berries were still
just unripe enough
to belong to childhood

I boarded the train
thirty seconds
before departure

Manos de barro (es – en)

Está ahí y su presencia es como un imán
Las cámaras lo siguen, 
Registran la elegancia de sus movimientos
Y lo adecuado de cada palabra
Que pronuncia en la más estándar de las lenguas

Es un faro que alumbra 
A cada estudiante de derecho
Cada aspirante a pastor
Cada depredador en potencia

Consigue moverse por el mundo, libre 
Gracias a su poderoso ejército 
De avogados

En el estrado blanquea sus dientes
En la intimidad muestra su blanca sonrisa

Todo encaja entre sus manos de barro
Un diminuto mundo de juguete
Que distraído hace girar a su antojo

Hands of Clay

He is there, and his presence is like a magnet.
The cameras follow him,
Capturing the elegance of his movements
And the aptness of every word
He utters in the most standard of tongues.

He is a beacon,
Lighting the way for every law student,
Every aspiring pastor,
Every predator in the making.
He moves through the world, free,
Thanks to his powerful army
Of lawyers.

At the bench he flashes his white teeth;
In private he wears his radiant smile.

Everything fits within his hands of clay,
A tiny toy world
That, absent-mindedly, he spins at will.

Entre a pedra (gl – en)

Aquí todo é pedra
Camiños de pedra, paredes de pedra
A alma do planeta asoma espida
Enrédase coa miña
Pois eu son pedra
Coñezo ben esta aparente indiferencia
Que constantemente a materia vexetal
Tenta conquistar
Como dixen, son pedra porén agradezo
As mans que pasaron ano tras ano,
Tras ano, 
conseguindo esta superficie lisa
Que ves
E nunca tería acadado
Eu só.
Grazas.

Among the Stone

Here, everything is stone.
Stone paths, stone walls.
The soul of the planet reveals itself, naked,
entangling with mine.
For I am stone.
I know well this seeming indifference
that the living world
is forever trying to overcome.
As I said, I am stone, yet I am grateful
for the hands that passed, year after year,
year after year,
bringing about this smooth surface
you see,
and which I could never
have achieved
on my own.
Thank you.

Fin do turno estival (gl – en)

Chega a hora de sair, por fin
na inmensidade aberta da tarde 
agardan as baldosas frescas da casa 
que aguanta ben o asedio do sol

Afora as herbas non afeitas ao novo clima 
amosan un abraio amarelo, porén, adentro 
a madeira marrón do chan na penumbra
arrastra a mente a navegacións oceánicas
en cada cuarto un novo libro
unha caricia en cada leve roce

No entanto, 
antes de poder abrazar 
tanta liberdade
encontro a porta forzada 
e no sofá e nas paredes,
na cociña e nos baños 
as manchas 
onde ela pousou 
as suas mans que afogan
pechando as contras 
bloqueando as entradas da vida 

non consigo desfacerme dela, 
convencela de migrar 
cara hábitats máis adaptados
aos seus velenos invisíbeis
así segue inmutábel
o seu aceno lacerante 
cubrindo nunha dinámica de borralla 
os máis doces manxares
as máis refrescantes expectativas

End of the Summer Shift

At last, it's time to leave.
In the afternoon's open vastness
the cool floor tiles of home await,
a house that stands firm
against the sun's relentless siege.

Outside, the grasses, unaccustomed to the new climate,
wear a startled yellow; inside,
the brown wooden floor in the half-light
draws the mind into ocean voyages.
In every room, a different book;
in every gentle brush, a caress.

And yet,
before I can embrace
so much freedom,
I find the door forced open,
and on the sofa and the walls,
in the kitchen and the bathrooms,
the stains
where she laid
her drowning hands,
shutting the shutters,
blocking every entrance to life.

I cannot rid myself of her,
cannot persuade her to migrate
towards habitats better suited
to her invisible poisons.
So she remains, unmoving,
her lacerating gesture
covering, like a spreading layer of ash,
the sweetest delicacies,
the most refreshing expectations.

A corrente (gl – en)

Hoxe volvín sentir a corrente
Sentado á beira, meus pés notaron 
Como ía medrando a sua forza
As augas que baixaban mainas, 
Desprovistas de intención
Nun nada aceleráronse

Meu peito océano, tua pel branca lúa

Abraiado polo acontecemento camiñei 
Para sentir sobre min a sua enerxía
Antes de poder pórme a salvo 
Xa meu corpo corria desbocado
Irrevocablemente vencidos os perímetros

The Current

Today I felt the current again
Sitting on the bank, my feet sensed
its strength steadily growing
The waters, flowing gently
stripped of all intention
in no time gathered speed.

My ocean chest, your moon-white skin.

Astonished by what was unfolding, I walked on
to feel its power upon me
Before I could reach safety
my body was already racing out of control
the boundaries irrevocably overrun.

O encargo (gl – en)

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.

Multitudes (gl – en)

O vintecinco de xullo 
cargo nos ombreiros 
unha constatación azul e branca

mesmo aquí, 
camiñando polas ruas de Compostela 
no medio deste derradeiro alento 
de pobo vencido

sinto ese isolamento 
que con fidelidade de can
me acompañará polo resto 
dos meus moi tensionados 
e moi extenuantes días por viver

Multitudes

On the twenty-fifth of July 
I carry a blue and white realization 
on my shoulders 

even here, 
walking through the streets of Compostela 
in the midst of this last breath 
of a defeated people 

feeling that isolation 
that will accompany me 
with doglike loyalty 
for the rest of my very tense 
and very exhausting days to live

Aos amantes [do mar] (gl – en)

O verán é o territorio das superficies 
e o mar co seu batido, cos arrecendos,
co despropósito do sal 
e a exuberancia do aroma das algas 
pon a banda sonora ao excitante período
onde o desexo acada a máxima extensión
do seu imperio
ávida de luz a nosa pel busca o contacto
como se estivese en xogo
a sua supervivencia

To (sea) lovers

Summer is the realm of surfaces
and the sea, with its breaking waves, its scents,
the extravagance of salt
and the lush fragrance of seaweed,
provides the soundtrack to that thrilling season
when desire reaches the furthest bounds
of its empire.
Hungry for light, our skin seeks contact
as though its very survival
were at stake.

Caderno de verán (gl – en)

Comeza o caderno así a saco
Cunha foto sorrinte na muralla de Lugo
Sabendo que uns días antes
Fun esparexendo en finas camadas
A miña alma pola beira do Lérez
Sen presa, ao ritmo marcado polas bicicletas
Indulxente, o paseo fluvial agarda sempre 
Disposto a asolagarme nos seus efluvios
A sua lingua de marmurios non precisa de intérprete
Accede dereita aos recunchos da alma

Arrinco unha folla de árbore 
Cubro o nariz con ela 
Respíroa, aínda que a comería 
Sería a comuñón do fillo pródigo
Quedaría por sempre alí enraizado
Na beira da corrente
Bebéndolle os minerais 
Roubados ao monte

O caderno comeza cunha mentira
Só coa cortiza seca dunha sobreira
Metade do meu ser, de dentes para fóra
Unha imaxe, menos ca media palabra
Pero aí estou eu, ceibados os meus versos 
No leito do río agardo a sua transformación

Summer Notebook

The notebook starts just like that, straight out
With a smiling photo on the walls of Lugo
Knowing that a few days before
I had been scattering my soul in thin layers
along the banks of the River Lérez 
Without a hurry, at the rhythm set by our bicycles
Indulgent, the river walk always awaits 
Ready to drown me in its effluvia
Its language of babblings doesn’t need an interpreter
It accesses right into the corners of the soul

I pluck a leaf from a tree
cover my nose with it
I breathe it, even though I would eat it
It would be the communion of the prodigal son
I would remain rooted there forever
On the bank of the current
Drinking its minerals
Stolen from the mountain

The notebook begins with a lie
Only with the dry bark of a cork oak
Half of my being, all teeth on display
An image, less than half a word
But there I am, my verses freed
On the riverbed I await its transformation