Hoy siento dentro 
La presión del pantano 
En el medio del pecho

Se engancha el casco
El los bajos de la isla de Navidad
De repente se vacía un torrente 
Salado
Que me arranca  
La carne toda

Entre mis huesos blancos de sol
El viento silba una melodía
Que tú convertirás en el himno
De nuestra patria de redención

Mis harapos desgarrados 
La bandera ondeando sobre
El fuerte de Navidad

Hubiese asentado mi hogar 
en las casas humildes del puerto
de mi nación de origen
si no me hubiera clavado los dientes
el virus de la poesía  


Christmas Fort

Today I feel inside
The pressure of the dam
In the middle of my chest

The hull catches
On the shallows of Christmas Island
Suddenly a salty torrent empties
That tears away
All my flesh

Among my sun-white bones
The wind whistles a melody
That you will turn into the anthem
Of our homeland of redemption

My tattered rags
The flag waving over
Christmas Fort

I would have settled my home
in the humble houses of the port
of my native land
if the poetry virus hadn't bitten me

Si que son católico, 
ou o fun, ou o era
E teño un museo onde locen amarelados,
Algúns aínda coas uñas afiadas,
Os pecados que non acadaran
Perdón, nin indulxencia

Agora que nace o Neno
Na carta aos Reis Magos
Pido o kit de crucifixión sueco
Un par de madeiros e tres cravos
Para armar o sinxelo mecanismo 
Autoinmolatorio

Podería escribir un dicionario completo
Nomeando a miña colección 
Como a de calquera que coma min
Xa foi novo e estúpido
Pois a xuventude deixa unha ferida 
Da que coidar o resto da vida 

Porén as poutas que hoxe máis se cravan
Son as dun gato silvestre, arisco
Que tras terme gañado a sua confianza
Abandonei nalgunha das moitas mudanzas
Ao final, aos dous nos sucedeu o mesmo:
nunca logramos recuperarnos

DIY atonement

Yes, I am Catholic,
or I was, or I used to be
And I have a museum where yellowed by time,
Some still with sharp nails,
Shine the sins that had not achieved
Forgiveness or indulgence

Now that the Child is born
In the letter to the Wise Men
I ask for the Swedish crucifixion kit
A couple of sticks and three nails
To assemble the simple self-immolation mechanism

I could write a complete dictionary
By naming my collection
Like that of anyone, like me,
was once young and stupid
Because youth leaves a wound
That must be cared for the rest of your life

However, the claws that dig in the most today
Are those of a feral cat
That after I had gained its trust
I abandoned it during one of the many moves
In the end, the same thing happened to both of us:
We never managed to recover

Entre tes cuisses s’écoula ma jeunesse
j’ai réussi à sentir le fond de mon puits
me découvrant animal et frère de tant d’autres
j’ai pu voler en aveugle moineau
porte-parole enflammé de la divinité
ton espace nid douillet de l’insouciance
convaincu d’être enfin arrivé au havre rêvé
je me suis fait une carapace de tes cuisses
mais, qu’importe! Là-bas au loin, en sourdine
un monde têtu façonnait sans pitié ses sillons 

Naked paradise

Between your thighs flowed my youth
I managed to feel the bottom of my well
discovering myself as an animal and a brother to so many others
I was able to fly blindly, a sparrow
a fiery spokesperson for divinity
your space, a cozy nest of carefree abandon
convinced I had finally arrived at my dream haven
I built a shell of your thighs
but, what does it matter! There in the distance, muted
a stubborn world mercilessly carved its furrows

Calculo haberá cinco mil versos que che contei 
Como fora o criarse na fronteira
Alí, naquel territorio agreste 
No borde da civilización o tempo
Acadaba a sua maior velocidade
A preguiza era o peor pecado 
A natureza decote reclamaba as chaves
Do reino que lle estabamos a roubar
Corrías o risco de ser comesto das silveiras
Así que aprendías a moverte rápido
Envexaba rúas asfaltadas, alumeados públicos
Nin nos xornais, nin nos colexio nos contaban nada
Por iso non existia a conciencia do noso labor
Gañando novos territorios para a humanidade 
O noso rabaño en contínua expansión

The speeds of time

I estimate there must be five thousand verses that I have told you
What it was like to grow up on the frontier
There, in that wild territory
On the edge of civilization, time
reached its highest speed
Laziness was the worst sin
Nature always demanded the keys
Of the kingdom that we were stealing from it
You ran the risk of being eaten by the brambles
So you learned to move quickly
I envied paved streets, public lighting
Neither in the newspapers nor in school did they tell us anything
That is why there was no awareness of our work
Gaining new territory for humanity
Our herd in continuous expansion

Carreiros na estepa
Entre plásticos desgarrados
E latas de conserva semienterradas
Hai opcións infinitas
Porén escollo a familiar traxectoria circular
Que permite aos meus pés avanzar sen ollos
Erosionando a mesma superficie
Contaminada de presenza

Outra posibilidade sería a aletoriedade
Que ningunha función matemática
Lograra representar: 
Non se podería prever a chegada dun amigo 
Ou a saída do sol nunha mañá fría 
Todo semellaría (im)posibel

Así e todo, a vida fructífera que nos pariu
Nunha marxe enrugada do mundo 
Usa os meus códigos binarios
Como abono para as hortensias
Sendo quen de sementar uns ollos novos
Na primavera han agromar 
Novas rutas entre prados
Punteados de maceiras

Routes

Paths in the steppe
Among torn plastics
And half-buried tins
There are endless options
However I choose the familiar circular trajectory
That allows my feet to advance without eyes
Eroding the same surface
Contaminated by presence

Another possibility would be randomness
That no mathematical function
Has managed to represent: 
You could not predict the arrival of a friend 
Or the sunrise on a cold morning 
Everything would seem (im)possible

And yet, the fruitful life that gave birth to us
On a wrinkled margin of the world 
Uses my binary codes
As fertilizer for hydrangeas
Being able to sow new eyes
In the spring they will sprout 
New routes between meadows
Spotted with apple trees

Farewell forever, Robe

En la ventana aparece una luna ovalada
Como si por los atajos del espacio-tiempo
Viniesen a mostrarse las intimidades
De un lejano sistema solar

Ahí afuera una luna 
Y en la luna una charca 
Con su principito vestido de rana

El reflejo de la bombilla 
En el cristal de la ventana del cuarto
Atrae a una luna lejana
Una hora antes de que llegue la noche
Para albergar el alma del poeta muerto

Requiem for the Dead Poet

An oval moon appears in the window
As if, through the shortcuts of space-time,
The secrets of a distant solar system came to reveal themselves

Out there, a moon
And on the moon, a pond
With its little prince dressed as a frog

The lightbulb's reflection
On the bedroom windowpane
Attracts a distant moon
An hour before nightfall
To house the soul of the dead poet

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.