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
Encontro co Mar (gl – en)
Afeito a correr como forma de vida
correndo cheguei ao mar
cargado dos meus máis pesados poemas,
tinta de chumbo sobre triste folla de lata
absorto no movemento como fin
non me preparei para o golpe no olfacto
o mar tiroume a roupa, cun par de ondas
reciclou en escuma o meu cargamento
nada que eu poida aportar de brillante
mellor cás brillantes marcas do caracol
en poucos segundos, a miña filosofía
foi sal dunha poza seca
só me quedaron unhas inmensas ganas
de nadar mar afora, reunirme con el a soas
volver centrarme na esquencida epiderme
Encounter with the Sea
Accustomed to running as a way of life
running I reached the sea
laden with my heaviest poems,
lead ink on sad tinplate
absorbed in movement as an end
I wasn’t prepared for the blow to my smell
the sea threw my clothes away, with a couple of waves
recycled my cargo into foam
nothing I can contribute that is brilliant
better than the snail’s brilliant marks
in a few seconds, my philosophy
was salt from a dry tidepool
all I was left with was an immense desire
to swim out to sea, to meet it alone
to refocus on the forgotten epidermis
abel abilheira 