Había un tirano
Como siempre, había un tirano allá arriba
Porque aquí las noticias trituraban los cuerpos 
Barrían los restos al vertedero
era un amasijo de carne
Partes desconectadas de cuerpos
De nuestros cuerpos
Que por fin se encontraban
Un Gernika de almas
Que un día se habían rozado
Quizás era eso todo a lo que aspirábamos
Pues el mundo ya estaba maduro

Rubbles

There was a tyrant
As always, there was a tyrant up there
Because here the news crushed the bodies
and swept the remains to the dump
It was a mass of flesh
Disconnected parts of bodies
Of our bodies
That finally met
A Gernika of souls
That had once touched
Perhaps that was all we aspired to
For the world was already ripe

No chan cerámico do comedor 
mentres os adultos toman café
un cabalo branco arrastra 
o carro no que moi ríxidos 
viaxan sentados dous playmobil

“Este cabalo non pode ir á carretera 
porque se lle dis que aparte non aparta. 
Se o levas ti coa man si avanza
os outros cabalos si que poden ir”

Na mesa hai conversa animada
A enfermidade o mellor unguento
Para os lazos esfarrapados da vida

Cando marchamos ela xa conseguiu 
que o cabalo branco a acompañe á sua casa
ainda que ten medo que eu llo roube
fago un último intento, achégome conciliador

“Eu na miña casa teño muitos cabalos”
Así que se confía e ao estar ao seu lado
bótolle a man rapidamente dicíndolle:
“Pero eu son o ladrón de cabalos!!”

Horse thief

On the dining room ceramic floor
while the adults drink coffee 
a white horse pulls the cart 
in which two Playmobil figures sit very stiffly 

“This horse isn’t allowed on the road 
because if you tell it to move, it won’t move. 
If you lead it by the hand, it will move forward. The other horses are allowed on the road.” 

There is lively conversation at the table 
Sickness is the best ointment 
for the frayed ties of life 

When we leave, she’s already managed 
to get the white horse to go with her home 
although she is afraid that I will steal it 
I make one last attempt 
approaching her in a conciliatory manner 

“I have a lot of horses at home.” 
So she let her guard down and when I reach her 
quickly pretend to grab her horse, saying: 
“But I’m the horse thief!!”

Vuelvo a una ciudad vacía, 
todo sigue en su sitio
los jardines, las estatuas,
los pantalanes y la grúa del club náutico 
y al abrir la puerta del coche
el golpe sordo del aire marino
“Me gusta cuando marchas porque estás bien ausente
Y me ves desde lejos y mi dolor no te toca”

Acarreo mi pedernal gastado 
¡oh, cómo podría quejarme! 
si tú y tú también os habéis arrastrado 
con la misma hambre y los ojos vendados
y aquí estoy de nuevo 
con una queja entre los dientes
como el humo de una hoguera 
de ramas verdes
único en mi profundidad 
solitaria migración estéril

Return (to Neruda)

I return to an empty city,
everything is still in its place
the gardens, the statues,
the docks, and the yacht club crane
and as I open the car door
the dull thud of the sea air
"I like it when you leave because you're so absent
And you see me from afar and my pain doesn't touch you"

I carry my worn flint
Oh, how could I complain!
If you and you too have dragged yourselves
with the same hunger and blindfolded eyes
And here I am again
with a complaint between my teeth
like the smoke from a bonfire
of green branches
alone in my depths
solitary sterile migration

Travel from Galicia to Castile: the scar. October 2025

Entro en Castela
abandono os territórios 
queimados do lobo
transición lenta á estepa
arrasto as feridas abertas
sobre o betadine
dos océanos de trigo
e a austera pedra roxa
envexo o amarelo desta chaira
o meu corazón chora cinza
que cobre a terra negra
impúdicamente espida
saio dun pobo cego
en rápido movemento
cara á extinción

Forest exile

I enter Castile,
leave the burnt wolf territories, 
slow transition to the steppe
I drag the open wounds
over the betadine
of the oceans of wheat
and the austere yellowish stone
I envy the gold of this plain
my heart cries ashes
that cover the black earth
shamelessly bare
I leave a blind people
in rapid movement
towards extinction

As mans de centos de persoas 
acariñaran a pel suave do avión
aplicaran a exacta presión
para desterrar o azar 
a un exilio afastado 
e conseguirlle o permiso de voo

Na viaxe sobrevoamos 
prados ingleses ben delimitados
e as augas dun océano azul
ao chegar de novo á terra
os montes cubrían o chan 
de cicatrices secas

salto pola estreita fiestra ovalada
salto e baixo rápido 
sen a molestia do vento na cara
bastante antes do esperado impacto
e a entrada noutra dimensión, abro as ás 
a traxectoria pasa á horizontal
 
Aterro suavemente na penedía
a baixada encheume de enerxía
mentres o avion se afasta 
atendendo os seus asuntos
eu percorro xa a pé o macizo 
ilusionado, esperanzado, 
listo para nomear cada pedra
cada pluma, cada óso
con só o esforzo da miña boca

Flight

The hands of hundreds of people 
had caressed the soft skin of the plane 
applied the exact pressure 
to banish chance to a distant exile 
and obtain its flight permit

On the journey we flew 
over well-defined English meadows 
and the waters of a blue ocean 
when we reached land again 
the mountains covered the ground 
with dry scars 

I jumped through the narrow oval window 
and descended quickly 
without the annoyance of the wind in my face 
well before the expected impact 
and the entrance to another dimension 
I spread my wings, the trajectory became horizontal 

I landed softly on the rocky ground 
te descent filled me with energy 
while the plane was moving away 
minding its own business 
I walked the massif on foot 
excited and hopeful 
ready to name each stone 
each feather, each bone 
with just the effort of my mouth.

A big thank you to Manuela Timofte for publishing my Poem of Love and Longing today.

I wrote it in December 2022. I read it, and it’s exactly the same thing I still feel now. This morning I read a poem by a Russian poet from over 100 years ago, and it also expressed that longing for being away from his homeland. It’s funny how similar all human beings are.

Poem of love and longing

Non é fábula, nin decreto lei 
todo o que ides escoitar:
fun eu só á montaña inhabitada
por terreos de pedras soltas
e restos de neve fría
pletórico na descuberta do mundo

a inexperiencia, andiven en círculos
pasaron os días, non atopei saída
faias primeiro, piñeiros, espiños 
logo carqueixas, paredes de escalada
No desespero coas uñas 
cavei un fondo burato

Durmin sete anos 
entre musgos e xistos azuis
padecendo en silencio 
a falta de wifi e de sal
mentres nalgunha parte 
o mundo seguía o seu curso

Nun día de neboa mesta 
perdinme, encontrei a saída
á miña volta, a familia unida 
rodeaba a mamá no hospital 
co mesmo bloqueo da fala
que me acompanaba

Neutro, pasara desapercibido,
que ninguén me coñecera
cos anos non era xa delito
Exiliado apatrida solicita asilo, 
unha terra que saque os barcos 
cando me encontre en perigo

Asylum

It is not a fable, nor a decree of law
all that you are going to hear:
I went alone to the uninhabited mountain
through terrain of loose stones
and remnants of cold snow
full of the discovery of the world

inexperience, I wandered in circles
the days passed, I found no way out
beech first, pine trees, hawthorns
then heather, climbing walls
In desperation with my nails
I dug a deep hole

I slept for seven years
among mosses and blue schists
suffering in silence
from the lack of wifi and salt
while somewhere
the world continued on its course

On a day of thick fog
I got lost, I found the way out
at my return, the united family
surrounded my mother in the hospital
with the same speech block
that accompanied me

Neutral, I had gone unnoticed,
that no one had known me,
over the years, it was no longer a crime
Stateless exile requests asylum 
a land that will take its ships out 
when I find myself in danger

Dans les contrées du plaisir 
les bouts des doigts c’étaient mes yeux 
dans le pèlerinage sur leurs surfaces promises

Ce furent la douleur et ses aiguilles 
qui réellement m’apprirent 
la véritable géographie des corps 

Learning

In the lands of pleasure 
the fingertips were my eyes 
on the pilgrimage to their promised surfaces

It was pain and its needles 
that truly taught me 
the true geography of bodies

A minha voz, vento sobre a montanha
Acariciando as costas ruivas do cabro
A minha voz um universo livre de lumes
Onde repousar dos dados e as fadigas
Atravessa a raia seca com o sotaque nortenho
A minha alma de vento galego espida
Veste-se de Portugal pela garganta clara
Angola e Brasil me reconhecem 
A minha voz engancha-se nos remoinhos 
Perco-me no labirinto das formas mortas
Quando os afetos precisariam alguma saída
Falo em rodeios que restringem os buracos 
Por onde o coração recebe a luz do sol
Falo em rios e cascatas
Falo em regatos pequenos
O pêlo do extinto íbex, como uma sombra
Já só brilha em preto e branco 
E da nossa alma possivelmente restem
Apenas gramáticas e museus

Extintion

My voice, wind over the mountain
Caressing the wild goat's reddish back
My voice, a universe free of wildfires
Where to rest from the data and the fatigue
Crosses the dry border with the northern accent
My soul, like a Galician wind, emerges
Dresses in Portuguese clothes through its clear throat
Angola and Brazil recognize me
My voice gets caught in the whirlwinds
I lose myself in the labyrinth of dead forms
When affections need some way out
I speak of detours that restrict holes
Where the heart receives the sunlight
I speak of rivers and waterfalls
I speak of small streams
The fur of the extinct ibex, like a shadow
Now only shines in black and white
And of our soul possibly remain
Only grammars and museums

Un tracteur de foin et tristesse 
qui traînait sa courte vitesse 
sur les sillons du pays francophone 
il restait un peu de mon âme 
collé aux bas du pantalon 
confondue, presque disparue 
entre les éclaboussures 
de cette nouvelle terre.

Le retour semblait un exil 
après les palais 
où ma peau s’était caressée 
les tôles de mon bidonville solitaire 
saupoudraient de rouille l’avenir. 
J’étais né pour le marbre et les dorures, 
né pour gratter infatigablement 
la croûte des choses 
S’il y avait un océan là dessous 
jamais je n’irais le découvrir.

De ces va-et-vient 
entre le désir et la frustration 
je réussi la culture 
de deux belles pommes, 
nourries au terreau, 
arrosées de mon cœur 
découpé en petits dés, 
parfaites en tout, 
même en leur négation 
de la troisième dimension

Who was I?

A tractor of hay and sadness
dragging its slow speed
across the furrows of the French-speaking country
a little of my soul remained
stuck to the hem of my trousers
mixed up, almost disappeared
among the splashes
of this new land.

The return seemed like exile
after the palaces
where my skin had been caressed
the sheet metal of my solitary shantytown
would sprinkle the future with rust.

I was born for marble and gilding,
born to tirelessly scrape
the crust of things
If there was an ocean down there
I would never go and discover it.

From this back-and-forth
between desire and frustration
I succeeded in growing
two beautiful apples,
nourished with soil,
watered with my heart
cut into small cubes,
perfect in every way,
even in their negation
of the third dimension