Transcorre o día atravesando as radiografías 
que o inverno lle fai ás árbores
tras tanta exposición á radiación
acábanseme espindo os ósos da alma

Houbo un tempo no que fora deus 
aínda que ninguén ao meu lado o soubo
nin eu mesmo fun consciente
até agora mesmo que apesarado 
o descubro nos resíduos de arrogancia,
que lixan canto se me achega

(e no bo coñecemento do maligno)

No inicio, na miña árida estepa 
só quedou alimento para a ruda silveira
que sufrindo o martirio da falta do tacto
foi quen de dar cativas bagas negras

De min, agora, resta un saco de tecido basto
dado a volta co de dentro para fóra 
vertendo en bucle as mesmas viaxes 

Volvo en peregrinación á aldea
recuperar a pertenza perdida
cubrindo de billetes de 50 euros
o manto da Virxe do Amparo

Pésanme os pecados cometidos
non encontro crenza que mos perdoe
ben adentro, busco aló no fondo
a iluminación que purifica o sustrato
no que medre o froito carnoso

Paseniño vanse sumando as millas
e as horas van conducíndome adentro
desta cidade que naceu para salvarme

X-ray

The day passes through the x-rays 
that winter makes of the trees
after so much exposure to radiation 
I end up undressing the bones of my soul

There was a time when I was a god
although no one around me knew it
nor was I aware of it
until now, sadly
I discover it in the residues of arrogance,
which dirty everything that comes near me

(and in the good knowledge of the evil)

In the beginning, in my arid steppe
only food remained for the rude bramble
which, suffering the martyrdom of the lack of touch
was able to give just a few black berries

Now, all that remains of me is a sack of coarse fabric turned inside out
pouring the same journeys in a loop

I return on pilgrimage to the village
to recover the lost belonging
covering the mantle of the Virgin of Protection with 50 euro bills

I am sorry for the sins committed
I cannot find the belief that would forgive me
deep inside, I seek deep down
the enlightenment that purifies the substrate
in which the fleshy fruit grows

Slowly the miles add up
and the hours lead me inside
this city that was born to save me

Thank you Manuela Timofte for choosing and publishing this poem in which I realize that I am merging with the language of the new country.

I have firstly writen this poem in French four years ago. Two and a half years had passed since I arrived in the country, and it already seemed like an eternity.

And winter comes back again!

Winter comes back

Today marks six years since I opened this WordPress site and started publishing poems. I am very happy with what I have learned during all these verses. And proud to have so many readers, so kind, the poems are sparks that gain firepower with your visits.

O significado último, o obxectivo, era o movemento 
avanzar por unha estrada densa, con vistas ao horizonte. 
Desprazarse como se a morte fose un animal lento 
que só pode facer o seu traballo sobre individuos sedentarios.

Avanzar como fin, mentres o corazón 
inmóbil aparece nun prado á beira da autovía 
espetado no alto dunha estaca. Estático.

O recoñezo, no sangue que seca polo pau abaixo  
como un envoltorio áspero de soidade.

O significado primordial, usado polo roce co aire, 
tornou en avanzar cara á estaca, 
agora abandonar o vehiculo na beiravía 
e deixar escorregar o tempo que fai medrar as árbores 
agardar os temidos ollos 
aprender a fala deles.

Moving forward

The ultimate meaning, the goal, was movement 
moving along a dense road, with a view of the horizon. 
Moving as if death were a slow animal 
that can only do its work on sedentary individuals.

Moving forward as an end, while the heart, 
motionless, appears in a meadow by the highway 
impaled on top of a stake. Static.

I recognize it, in the blood that dries on the stick below, 
like a rough wrapping of loneliness.

The primary meaning, used by the friction with the air, 
became moving towards the stake, 
now abandoning the vehicle on the hard shoulder 
and letting slip away the time that makes trees grow, 
waiting for the dreaded eyes,
learning their language.

Podo abrir a fiestra e deixar que o derradeiro aire de novembro
varra as sombras que quedan aínda agarradas nos recunchos solitarios
do meu peito

Antes había fins de semana que adicaba a escapar da vida polos bares:
era só unha rotonda onde podías xirar felizmente toda a vida
en modo degradado

Agora hai días libres que adico a recibir visitas complicadas mais inaprazábeis
os mensaxeiros aparecen de súpeto, agachados tras un feito aparentemente banal
e non se poden esquivar, nin pechar os ollos e rezar para que desaparezan.

Así que respiro e lles poño a mellor das miñas caras e comeza a contenda
sendo por veces tan dura que podo saber que aínda todo é posibel
porque sigo a respirar. Todo aínda é posibel.

Cando os mensaxeiros encontran no fondo profundo de min aquelo que procuraban
arríncano coas suas tenaces e arrastrando tripas de sangue e victoria 
afástanse saciados deixando o caos a zoar no horizonte

Véndoo como unha araña que observa a escea dende unha esquina do teito
quizáis non exista a derrota, a satisfacción de ter aprendido a cortar hedras de tronco groso
e si, tamén uns microcristais circulando polas veas recordatório do acontecido.

Encounters

I can open the window and let the last air of November 
sweep away the shadows that still cling to the lonely corners
of my chest

Before, there were weekends I spent escaping life through bars: 
it was just a roundabout where you could happily spin your whole life 
in degraded mode

Now there are days off that I spend receiving complicated but unavoidable visits
the messengers appear suddenly, crouching behind a seemingly banal event
and they cannot be dodged, nor can you close your eyes and pray that they will disappear.

So I breathe and put on my best face and the fight begins
sometimes so hard that I can know that anything is still possible
because I am still breathing. Everything is still possible.

When the messengers find deep inside me what they were looking for
they tear it out with their pliers and drag guts of blood and victory
they walk away sated leaving chaos to roam on the horizon

Seeing it like a spider observing the scene from a corner of the ceiling
maybe there is no defeat, the satisfaction of having learned to cut thick-stemmed ivy
and yes, also some microcrystals circulating through the veins as a reminder of what happened.

Como un can de caza, o corpo 
Coa respiración acelerada
Mostra unha corredoira
Por aquí, por aquí!

Ha estar baixa a marea 
Nas rochas do mar do Norte
Onde se quentan as focas

Non queda líquido no limpa
Rasco o xeo do parabrisas
Co pano do pó para o salpicadeiro

O céspede resiliente
maquíllase de branco
o día no que estreo traxe

E hoxe non asoma o paporrubio
Só un corvo atarefado 
Andivo polos tellados

Only a crow

Like a hunting dog, the body, 
with its rapid breathing, shows a trail
This way, this way!

The tide must be low 
on the rocks of the North Sea 
where the seals warm up

There is no liquid left in the wiper, 
I scrape the ice off the windshield 
with the dashboard’s towel

The resilient lawn 
wears white makeup 
on the day I debut my suit

And today the robin doen't appear, 
only a busy crow 
scurries across the roofs

Na porta do derradeiro refuxio
Nunha bolsa de basura recuperei
A miña inservíbel roupa vella 
Convertida en protectora embalaxe
Dun dicionario en língua antiga
Cheo de fermosas palabras descoñecidas
Co único encargo de protexer
Da infancia os derradeiros debuxos

Dibujo infantil

En la puerta del último refugio
En una bolsa de basura recuperé
Mi ropa vieja e inútil
Convertida en embalaje protector
De un diccionario en una lengua antigua
Lleno de hermosas palabras desconocidas
Con la única tarea de proteger
Los últimos dibujos de la infancia

Children’s drawing

At the door of the last refuge
In a bin bag I retrieved
My old, useless clothes
Turned into protective packaging
For a dictionary in an ancient language
Filled with beautiful, unknown words
With the sole purpose of protecting
The last drawings of childhood

Todo estaba xa alí 
Enrodelado en perfecta orde
Como unha semente a agardar 
polas chuvias de tormenta
Todo semellaba perfecto
A paixón, a ousadía, a ilusión, a constancia
Tamén o limiar onde a dor nómade 
instalaría os seus campamentos 

Latency and thresholds

Everything was already there
Rolled up in perfect order
Like a seed waiting
for the stormy rains
Everything seemed perfect
The passion, the boldness, the illusion, the perseverance
Also the threshold where nomadic pain
would set up its camps

Cando me encontrou vivía eu nunha illa
nunca tanto castiñeiro vira!
o Mediterráneo e a miña cegueira
miráronse aos ollos sorprendidos
marcharon cada un polo seu lado 

A menos de mil millas e só catro aeroportos
á saída do turno de noite no estaleiro 
unha taberna ofrecería rinchas asadas 
para abastecer de omega tres os obreiros
habitantes do corpo exausto do proletariado

En Didsbury Village na hora do peche
a peixería recolle as fermosas rinchas
que volvían á cámara sen espertar o desexo
levo a barca dereita cara ás gaivotas
que con algarabía balizan a zona de pesca

At fishmonger’s display

When she found me, I was living on an island
I had never seen so many chestnut trees!
the Mediterranean and my blindness
looked into each other's eyes in surprise
they each went their separate ways

Less than a thousand miles and only four airports away
at the end of the night shift at the shipyard
a tavern would offer grilled mackerel
to supply omega three to the workers
inhabitants of the exhausted body of the proletariat

In Didsbury Village at closing time
the fishmonger collects the beautiful mackerels
that returned to the walk-in fridge without having aroused any desire
I steer the boat right towards the seagulls
that loudly mark the fishing zone

Trala compra do sábado
Baixamos de Ashton a Salford
Entrando en Mánchester cruzamos o barrio xudío
Abraioume a inmersión no mundo dos chapeus
Quixera compartir co avó esta descuberta
Falar con el das guerras e dos supervivintes
Gozar do movemento fluido do cosmos na sua boca
Entregarlle un cacho do meu universo
Como cando el me levou á feira de Santiago 
para vender dous becerros
Ou cando explicou como voaba o diñeiro fácil do wolframio
Ou como se constrúe unha vida fructífera
nacendo fillo de zapateiro e sen zapatos 

The cosmos in his mouth

After Saturday shopping
We went down from Ashton to Salford
Entering Manchester we crossed the Jewish quarter
I was amazed by the immersion in the world of hats
I would have liked to share this discovery with my grandfather
Talk to him about wars and survivors
Enjoy the fluid movement of the cosmos in his mouth
Give him a piece of my universe
Like when he took me to the Santiago fair
to sell two calves
Or when he explained how easy money from tungsten 
slips through your fingers
Or how to build a fruitful life
being born the son of a shoemaker and without shoes

Cuántas veces me apuñalé las manos
cuántas veces pataleé 
hasta sangrar por las uñas de los piés
alguna de esas gotas mojó el suelo 
e hizo crecer las zarzas hacia atrás de mi

Cuántas veces mi niño se esconde en una jaula fría
y la Madre Tierra me ve realmente 
como una rata corriendo en la rueda
cuántos versos pesa mi alma 
y cuánta ceniza dejarán sobre el asfalto

No quiero un nicho, como se usa allá a lo lejos
Donde metan mis huesos en un saco
Quiero un entierro británico
Con tierra y raíces, y un árbol 
o al menos hierba o musgo 
Un sitio por donde pise la gente
No un parking donde se apoyen 
las ruedas insensibles de los camiones 

Quizá siga mi niño mimado llorando por azúcar
Calentando con su cuerpo las sábanas húmedas
Esperando que el mundo por sí solo se haga bueno

Cuántas veces he llorado y maldecido el destino
Sin saber que la solución había estado aquí siempre
¿Cuál es el residuo que queda 
tras todos estos años 
de inútil sufrimiento?

Residue

How many times I stabbed my hands
How many times I kicked
until my toenails bled
some of those drops soaked the ground
and made brambles grow behind me

How many times my child hides in a cold cage
and Mother Earth truly sees me
like a rat running on a wheel
how many verses does my soul weigh
and how much ash will they leave on the asphalt

I don't want a niche, like they do far away
where they put my bones in a sack
I want a British burial
with earth and roots, and a tree
or at least grass or moss
a place where people walk
not a parking lot where the insensitive wheels of trucks rest

Perhaps my spoiled child is still crying for sugar
warming the damp sheets with his body
waiting for the world to become good on its own

How many times have I cried and cursed fate
without knowing that the solution had always been here
what is the residue left 
after all these years 
of pointless suffering?