Grazas á capa de formigón 
que cobre este vasto território 
xa non temos que nos ocupar máis 
das herbas invasoras, nin das outras

Abaixo desta capa quedaron sepultadas 
as maceiras, os galiñeiros, o fouciño
podemos adicar as horas a viaxar 
a superfície lisa, weed-free das pantallas

Abaixo do que está máis abaixo 
apañando mazás, recollendo ovos
abríndose camiño entre a herba
perdeuse o meu neno voluntarioso

My wilful boy

Thanks to the layer of concrete 
that cover this vast territory 
we no longer have to worry about 
invasive weeds, or any grass

Beneath this layer were buried 
apple trees, chicken coops, the sickle
now we can spend hours traveling 
the screens’ smooth weed-free surface

Underneath what is below 
picking apples, gathering eggs 
making his way through the grass 
my wilful boy was lost

Todo el día tuve un poema 

en la punta de la lengua 

engarzaba dos palabras sencillas 

(miedo y culpa) 

con otra compleja, distante

(equilibrio) 

no encontré el momento

de armarles un encofrado 

en el que volcar su historia 

en realidad la mía

así que llego a la noche 

con la boca seca, rígida

como la madera de un mástil 

y sólo me queda el vago rescoldo

como un eco solitario 

que muere rebotando 

contra las paredes del desierto 

sin conseguir hallar oído

en el que refugiarse

Lost Poem

All day long I had a poem 

on the tip of my tongue 

linking together two simple words 

(fear and guilt) 

with another one complex, distant 

(balance) 

I couldn’t find the time 

to set them a shuttering 

in which to pour their story 

actually mine 

so I arrive at night 

with a dry, rigid mouth 

like the wood of a mast 

and only the vague ember remains 

like a solitary echo 

that dies bouncing off 

the walls of the desert 

without being able to find an ear 

in which to take refuge

A azotea do edificio roza 

a barriga branca dos avións

no cedo da mañá son 

fío branco que zurce, 

nas teas que a noite teceu, 

os baixos da saia do día 

*

o ceo azul da cidade 

varre a cinza recén enfriada 

coa mesma agulla decote 

sen se decataren 

cosen as cativas sementes 

que a miña perenne fuga esparexeu

nas cunetas desta metrópole

Planes and ditches

The roof of the building scrapes 

the white belly of the planes

in the early morning they are 

white thread sewing up, 

in the fabric the night has woven, 

the hem of the day’s skirt

*

the blue sky of the city 

sweepes up the recently cooled ash 

with the same needle every day

without realise it 

they sew the weak seeds 

that my perennial escape scattered

in the ditches of this metropolis

Labramos lastrados coa pena 

atrás dos vidros tintados 

do coche de alta gama 

o neno dos ollos tristes 

tamén arrastra a súa

*

eu, pola miña banda 

chego a pensar que son só 

o pesadelo dun moribundo 

ferido de remorsos 

*

achégome ao balcón 

o frío nas mans que apertan 

a varanda de ferro 

sitúame de volta no labradío

As far as I am concerned

We plow the land 

weighed down with sorrow 

behind the tinted windows 

of the high-end car 

the boy with sad eyes

 also drags his own

*

I, as far as I’m concerned 

come to think that I am only 

the nightmare of a dying being 

wounded by remorse 

*

I approach the balcony 

the cold in the hands 

gripping the iron railing 

places me back on the field to plow

aí ven correndo a vida 

coa sua carga de sombra

tanto corre que ás veces 

non dá p´ra facerse a un lado

agacharse é tentador

deixar que nos atropelen

as toneladas de negrura

*

porén o residuo dos anos 

a bater na nosa teimosía 

coma o vento nunha bandeira

afiou o gume da trencha

coa que lle ir sacando virutas

e facela así menos densa

The edge of the chisel

There comes life running 

with its burden of shadow

it runs so much that sometimes 

you can’t stand aside

crouching down is tempting

let it be run us down 

by the tons of blackness

*

however the residue of the years 

beating our stubbornness 

like the wind a flag

sharpened the edge of the chisel

with which to take it out shavings

and make it less dense

Encontrei o teu corpo 

ventureiro de bardana

no roce coa tua perna 

enganchouse o meu desexo

*

agora nas sabas escuras da noite

cada sábado no silencio 

podes sentir o avance cego 

dos meus labios, dos meus dedos

Bardana

I found your burdock

wild body

in the graze of your leg 

my desire was hooked

*

now in the dark sheets of night

every Saturday in silence 

you can feel the blind advance 

of my lips, of my fingers

Semello perdido
nun carreiro escuro
aparentemente sen saída
ao lonxe escoitase, como en sordina 
o cálido balbordo dunha festa 

os calcetíns que puxeches hoxe
non pegan co pantalón

parece que a xente busca alegría
como vai alguén querer meterse
neste recuncho triste

desde cando o gris aceiro casou
con ese marrón foncé?

este labirinto non é de sebe 
de faia inglesa ou buxo do pazo de Oca
as paredes son de espiño
os erros páganse na pel

unha vida ou outra vida só son vidas
a diferencia está no coidado 
dos pequenos detalles

o espiño tórnase fermoso na primavera
rodéate coas suas flores brancas
chegas a sentirte incluso especial

unha vida ten os seus tempos
tempo de ver medrar as espiñas
tempo de pararse a sacalas do corpo
detalles a coidar para manter abertos 
os intersticios por onde entra a luz

Details

I seem lost
in a dark alley
apparently a dead end
in the distance it is heard, as if muffled 
the warm racket of a party 

the socks you put on today
don't match with your trousers

it seems that people are looking for joy
How could anyone want 
to come to this sad corner?

since when the steel gray 
matches that dark brown?

this maze is not a hedge 
of English beech 
or boxwood like in Oca palace
the walls are made of hawthorn
mistakes are paid on the skin

one life or another life is just lives
the difference is in the care 
of the small details

the hawthorn becomes beautiful in spring
it surrounds you with its white flowers
you even get to feel special

a life has its times
time to see the thorns grow
time to remove them from the body
details to take care of 
to keep open the interstices 
through which the light enters

Agarro coa man o amuleto

sinto a sua calor que é a miña

fágoo moverse entre os dedos

sopésoo, doulle voltas

marabíllome co seu brillo

deixo que o seu doce tacto 

me conecte de novo

a centos, miles de quilómetros

co pozo onde abrollaba

á máis cristalina das materias

a que nos fixo por un intre

rozar a felicidade

Amulet

I grab the amulet with my hand

feel its warmth that is mine

make it move between my fingers

I feel the weight of it, I turn it around

marveled at its brilliance

I let its sweet touch 

connect me again

hundreds, thousands of kilometers away

with the well where it flowed

the most crystalline of substances

the one that made us for a while

to graze happiness

Today Masticadores publishes my poem Dried up Source, written after a walk around Bakewell, in the Peak District.

I would like to thank Manuela Timofte for the selection and publication. It is a pleasure for me if you can go read it at this link:

Dried up Source

Entramos no tunel Blackwall 
deixamos Londres cara ao sur 
circulación lenta, luces de freo 
estrelas vermellas que arrastran 
o pensamento baixo o Támesis 

teño medo de saber tanto sobre a dor
que chegue un día 
no que ninguén poida axudarme
soño que aparece alguén e me mira 
profundamente adentro e consegue
cortar un cacho desa negrura mesta 
pero sei que só eu podo facerlle frente
cada quen móvese na propia órbita
coa forza xusta para termar dunha alma
así é a norma, esta desnudez
este avanzar descalzo na grava
supoño que se lograse ceibar este peso
simplemente voaría 
e se lograse facelo aquí 
atravesaría as paredes do túnel e o leito do río 
e a auga do río e o aire cargado
da cidade 
non quedaría un só recuncho
no que o medo puidese agacharse
a miña vida sería unha vela inchada
unha bandada de aves migratorias
unha saba branca batendo ao vento

lentamente a cola avanza e chegamos 
á rampa de saída, a circulación acelérase 
a mente adéntrse noutros labirintos
da superficie que non escurecen
o meu sorriso

Under the river

We entered Blackwall tunnel 
we left London southwards
slow motion, brake lights 
red stars trailing
my thought under the Thames 

I'm afraid I know so much about pain
that may one day come 
in which no one can help me
I dream that someone appears and looks at me 
deep inside and reaches
to cut a bunch of that dense blackness 
but I know that only I can deal with it
everyone moves in their own orbit
with the right force to keep a soul
that's the norm, this nudity
this walk barefoot on the gravel
I suppose if I could release all weight 
I would just fly away 
and if I managed to do it here 
I would go through the walls of the tunnel 
and through the bed of the river 
and the river water and the city charged air
not a single corner would be left
in which fear could hide
my life would be a swollen sail
a flock of migratory birds
a white sheet flapping in the wind

slowly the queue moves and we arrive 
to the exit ramp, traffic speeds up 
the mind enters other labyrinths
of the surface that do not darken
my smile