Á última hora volven os fuxidos
Envorcallados en mil chairas
No corpo traen restos de neve 
Terra entre os dedos das mans
Nas comisuras da boca grans de area

Os ollos velados con auga de chuvia
Xa só poden mirar cara adentro
A língua lastrada solitaria
As mans como o autobús de liña 
Presas en percorridos rutinarios

Coladas aos costados 
Carrexan palabras estrañas
Perderon preposicións 
Mudaron significados

Reintegran a comunidade
Pero nin ela é a mesma
Nin eles se percatan
Que xa non son eles

They come back

At the last minute the fugitives return
Rolled around in a thousand plains
On their skin they carry remnants of snow 
Soil between their fingers
In the corners of the mouth grains of sand

Eyes veiled with rainwater
They can only look inwards
The lonely weighted tongue
Hands like the regular buses 
Jailed on routine tours

Glued to their sides  
They bring strange words,
Have lost prepositions 
Changed some meanings

They reintegrate the community
But neither is it the same 
Nor do they realize 
They are no longer themselves

https://wp.me/pb25V4-38v

It is inspired by the trees of Manchester, which made the years I lived there more enjoyable.

Thanks to Manuela for the selection!

Escribo 
escribo pequenos textos 
ás veces tan tristes que se afogan eles sós antes de chegaren ao mar

Evito
evito até onde son consciente
de me regodear na magoa
de deixala á fronte da expedición

Abro
abro a gaiola das rotinas
saboreo o suplemento literario
camiño á beira do río

As pegadas dos patos 
escriben textos no limo
abro a camara do tradutor 
que evita dar unha resposta útil

Language not supported

Weekend

I write 
I write short texts
sometimes so sad that they drown themselves 
before they reach the sea

I avoid
I avoid as far as I'm aware 
gloating in the hurt
leaving it to be in heading the expedition

I open
I open the cage of routines
savour the literary supplement
walk by the river

Duck footprints write lines in the silt
I open the camera of the translator 
that avoids giving a useful answer

Language not supported

after reading ‘Your bicycle’ by Joe Carrick-Varty

Cando penso á bicicleta cuberta pola herba e o musgo
sinto unha magoa mesta escorregarme pola alma abaixo 
lembro a derradeira vez que fora en ela polo pan
no movemento a rua enchíase con estertores
de óxido e rodamentos gastados

Uns meses despóis estorbaba no garaxe
mudou ao descanso eterno atrás do galpón da leña

Enrédaseme o pensamento buscando a razón desta tristura das derradeiras veces
Este sentimento parece ter algo a ver coas incertezas das fronteiras da vida 

Preciso sair camiñar á beira das papoulas 
Que o sol morno de maio derreta este pesadume invasor
E a cada paso quede estrado no camiño
Deixando espazo para a entrada da luz

The bike

When I think of the bike covered in grass and moss
I feel a thick sorrow slipping down my soul
I remember the last time I rode it for buying bread
in the movement the street was filled with death rattles
of rust and worn bearings

A few months later it was getting in the way in the garage
so it was moved to eternal rest behind the woodshed

My thoughts are tangled, looking for the reason for this sadness of the last times
this feeling seems to have something to do with the uncertainties of life's borders

I need to go for a walk by the poppies
may the warm sun of May melt away this encroaching heaviness
and at every step it pours in the path
leaving space for light to enter

Algérie, avril 2009

A cada paso nos chanzos
a cada golpe de cada un dos teus pes
nas escaleiras que te traen
chamas amodiño polo tempo
que quedara durmido,
vai acordando

e cando soa o timbre
da miña porta
baixa da cama, bótase a correr
e comezas na conta atrás
a escribir o teu nome
no vaso que bebes
na manta que retiras
na toalla que mollas
na silhueta que se agarra ao espello

como se vai apagando o eco
dos teus pasos
nas escaleiras que te levan
e o tempo bocexa
e se durme outra volta
tempo en coma
que me deixa o tempo
para a leitura das obras completas
do teu nome en cada obxecto

In each object

At every step on the treads,
with each stroke of each of your feet
on the stairs that bring you to me
you call softly for the time
that had fallen asleep
it starts to wake up

and when the doorbell rings
at my door
it gets out of bed, starts running
and on the countdown
you start to write your name
in the glass you drink
in the blanket you remove
in the towel you wet
in the silhouette of yours 
that clings to the mirror

as the echo of your steps fades 
on the stairs that take you away
the time yawns
and it sleeps again
time in coma
that leaves me the time
for reading the complete works
of your name on each object

Escribín tanto tempo escarvando na alma á procura do entendemento! Nunca saían palabras de gloria, de éxtase ou de contento. Se morrer mañá que che habería quedar en herdanza? Só o efémero vapor dun corpo partido disipándose rápidamente entre as pólas das árbores

Escríboche agora este poema coas esquinas romas e as patas dos mobles acolchadas, un espazo liso onde todo é amable e nada che demanda. Unha ventá soleada onde non medre o musgo e poidamos ser bendecidos polo salitre mentres escoitamos a eterna respiración das augas aló embaixo.

Un espazo de amor é o poema este ao que poderás voltar topar a paz cando eu non estea.

A nosa pel salgada activaranos o apetito, o alimento será a robaliza que a marea ao retirarse nos deixa nunha poza. Cortarei e fritirei o peixe en aceite de oliva e sei que xa estás salivando, o mar coida de nós!

Coa miña lingua percorrerei paseniño o extenso territorio da tua pel recolectando as moléculas de brisa na cara interna das tuas coxas. 

Reflectirán os teus ollos avelá o solpor laranxa dende a liña do horizonte, o último sol do día tinxirá os nosos abrazos.

Neste poema nada está construído en pulgadas ou centímetros a base métrica é a palma da tua man por iso cada utensilio, cada picaporte se adapta a ti de xeito que te sentirás cómoda sen saberes porque.

Aquí non precisas preguntar ámasme? A esencia desta casa é a máis sinxela e poderosa: o amor. Sentiraste amada e completa.

Así que volve a este teu poema refuxio, onde vibra o meu amor, tantas veces como precisares. Ata que se enchan as reservas de cariño e poidas voltar ao mundo en harmonía e equilibrada. 

Tampouco tes que esperar a que eu morra para gozar desta utopía.

Ven

Love prose

I wrote so long digging in the soul in search of understanding! Words of glory, ecstasy or contentment never came out. If I die tomorrow, what would you inherit?  Only the ephemeral steam of a gone body quickly dissipating through the branches of the trees

Now I’m writing you this poem with blunt corners and cushioned furniture legs, a smooth space where everything is kind and nothing demands you.  A sunny window where no moss grows and we can be blessed by saltpeter while listening to the eternal breathing of the waters down there.

A space of love is this poem to which you can return to find peace when I am not there.

Our salty skin will activate our appetite, the food will be the sea bass that the retreating tide leaves us in a pool. I will cut and fry the fish in olive oil and I know you are already salivating, the sea will take care of us!

With my tongue I will slowly travel the extensive territory of your skin collecting the molecules of breeze on the inside of your thighs.

Your hazel eyes will reflect the orange sunset from the horizon line, the last sun of the day will dye our hugs.

In this poem, nothing is built in inches or centimeters, the metric base is the palm of your hand, that’s why every utensil, every door handle adapts to you so that you will feel comfortable without knowing why.

Here you don’t need to ask “do you love me?”, the essence of this house is the simplest and most powerful: love. Here you are going to feel loved and complete.

So come back to this refuge poem of yours, where my love vibrates, as often as you need.  Until the reserves of affection are filled and you can return to the world in harmony and balance.

You don’t have to wait for me to die to enjoy this utopia either.

So come

A vida deixa manchas de sangue seco no mantel(e)
Por muito c’o laves e os teus ollos xa n’as vexan 
o sol aínda é quen de percorrer 
co seu dedo as fronteiras do medo

soño pesadelos esperto 
levo ás costas todas as cidades 
nas que me cortei os dedos

os pés se m’enterran
non hai enlace tan forte 
que non o venza este peso

porén, sempre qu’acordo sinto 
o suave roce das miñas ás contra o costado
seguro que un día aprenderán 
os outos camiños do ar levado

Feather touch

Life leaves dried blood stains on the tablecloth
no matter how much you wash it  
even if your eyes can no longer see them
the sun is able to travel 
with his finger the borders of fear

I dream nightmares awake
I carry on my back all the cities 
where I cut my fingers

my feet sink
there is no bond strong enough
that this weight cannot overcome it

however, whenever I wake up 
I feel the gentle brush of my wings against my side
surely one day they will learn 
the high paths of the turbulent air

Cunha evolución lenta
case imperceptiblemente 
a nosa pel foi mudando
nun proceso solitario, doloroso
unha a unha
as escamas fóronse abrindo camiño
através da derme escura, seca, dura
de terra áspera e poeirenta

Baixando as escaleiras mecánicas do metro
vin asomar os primeiros síntomas da mutación
as aletas reemprazando os membros inservibles
a transformación arquitectural 
no ríxido palacio da boca

Agora nos túneles que sustentan 
os alicerces desta cidade
mentres buceo sen necesidade de aire
decátome de que é inútil o medo
a impaciencia ou a comparación
a evolución segue o ritmo natural
a nosa pel, allea a esperanza 
acadou a sua nova configuración

Mutation

With a slow evolution
almost imperceptibly
our skin has been changing
in a lonely, painful process
one by one
the scales were making their way
through the dark, dry, hard epidermis
of rough and dusty earth

Going down the tube escalators
I saw the first symptoms of the mutation appear
fins replacing useless limbs
the architectural transformation
in the rigid palace of the mouth

Now in the tunnels that support
the foundations of this city
while diving without the need for air
I realize that fear is useless
as is impatience or comparison
evolution follows the natural rhythm
our skin, alien to hope
has reached its new configuration

Agradezo a chegada de maio 
de mañá cedo camiño ao traballo 

o sol xa quenta as papoulas 
e os meus tenis cor vermello

síntome lixeiro 

voaría se non for polas zonas ocultas 
onde en silencio se expresa o estrés

cústame xuntar os segundos dun minuto
para rematar a lectura dun poema

agardo espectante a trama 
que a xornada tecerá cos meus fíos

I would fly

I appreciate the arrival of May
early morning on my way to work

the sun is already warming the poppies 
and my red sneakers

I feel light

I would fly if not for the hidden areas 
where stress is silently expressed

it's hard for me to put together 
the seconds of a minute 
to finish reading a poem

I look forward to the plot 
the day will weave with my threads

Pecho os ollos, abaixo o río coas mareas artificiais que me deixan destemperado, eu agardando polos ciclos da lúa e aquí chegan as augas rápidas subindo cara ao canaval, cubrindo a barcaza medio enterrada na lama. 

Un cisne, unha parella de galiñola negra patrullan todo ao longo da marxe norte do Lea, logo estas augas marróns ao contrario do que podo supoñer, tamén conteñen vida.

O parking vermello, os edificios azuis, crema, marróns da illa, o paseo que bordea o meandro ata a ponte que cruza á estación do metro.

A diferencia coa rúa da casa onde vivimos en Manchester durante máis de catro anos, aquí hai unha vista ampla, podes buscar o horizonte entre as torres, sobre as autovías e polo outro lado, se te asomas ao balcón vese o Támesis, cos Uber Boats de servizo cara ao centro, e un gran barco amarrado que me enche a cabeza de sal e liberdade. Sempre penso, qué sorte viaxar tan lonxe, a países descoñecidos, por mares inexplorados! Aí é onde está o cerne da vida, aí nese movemento cara ao novo, os ollos ávidos de luz, de aprendizaxe. 

Os barcos sempre aportan un sustrato rico para os meus soños.

Rivers and dreams

I close my eyes, down there, the river with the artificial tides that leave me untempered, I wait for the cycles of the moon but here come the fast waters rising towards the reedbed, covering the barge half buried in the mud

A swan, a pair of black grouse patrol everything along the north bank of the Lea, then these brown waters, contrary to what I can assume, also contain life.

The red parking lot, the blue, cream, brown buildings of the island, the promenade that borders the meander to the bridge that crosses towards the tube station.

Unlike the street in the house where we lived in Manchester for more than four years, here there is a wide view, you can look for the horizon between the towers and over the motorways and on the other side, if you look out on the balcony you can see the Thames, with Uber Boats in service to the center, and a large ship moored that fills my head with salt and freedom. I always think, what luck to travel so far, to unknown countries, through unexplored seas! That is where the heart of life is, there in that movement towards the new, your eyes hungry for light, for learning.

Ships always provide a rich substrate for my dreams.