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

Por las grietas que dejó el verano
se filtra la dulce lluvia de septiembre
entre un vientre y otro vientre
pétalos blancos de rosas tardías

las páginas porosas de mi agenda
absorben suaves sílabas
erosionadas en tu garganta

en lo alto de las escaleras aguarda
el orgasmo de un millón de peces
en el océano de nuestros cuerpos

y errantes en busca de los líquidos 
las raíces inagotables en su fe
nos encuentran un hogar 

A million fish

Through the cracks left by summer
the sweet September rain seeps
between one belly and another
white petals of late roses

the porous pages of my diary
absorb soft syllables
eroded in your throat

at the top of the stairs awaits
the orgasm of a million fish
in the ocean of our bodies

and wandering in search of liquids
the inexhaustible roots in their faith
find us a home

Adicado á miña nai

O xabón non consegue sacar das uñas
o negro de graxas e aceites de motor
motores náuticos, motores de coche
que por vía cutánea invadíranlle o ADN

As mans, agarradas ao guiador da moto,
percorren a noite de estradas solitarias
sen ter certeza de estar a delinear
a ruta das migracións da miña alma

A banda sonora, do moucho e o chorro da fonte 
córtase co petardeo da Vespa na última costa
móvense os leitos de toxo nas cortes durmidas
os peitos dos cans anuncian a morte

Xa antes de cubrir a pé a distancia ata a porta 
baixo parras encerelladas atravesadas de chuvia
A cociña, que aínda non enfriara acolle o loito
E nese mesmo ano, traíanme ao mundo 

A min, o herdeiro do silencio

Biography 1: The Messenger

Soap can't get rid from your nails of the black grease and engine oils 
of nautical & car engines
that have invaded his DNA through his skin

His hands, clutching the handlebars of his motorcycle,
travel the night of lonely roads
without being sure that he is outlining
the route of my soul's migrations

The soundtrack, of the owl and the fountain's jet
is cut off by the crackle of the Vespa on the last hill
the gorse beds in the sleeping stables move
the dogs' chests announce death

Even before covering the distance to the door on foot
under the tangled vines that the rain is crossing
The kitchen, which had not yet cooled down, welcomes mourning
And in that same year, they brought me into the world

Me, the heir to silence

A notte porta sentieri…

Vexo o lobo que baixa en manda
Na carreira frótanse os costados 
Amosan o brillo do fio dos dentes 
E o mundo se lle abre indefenso

A noite trae camiños que o sol ocultaba
Nun bote de marmelada de laranxa
Como un tesouro poderoso
260 centímetros cúbicos 
Gasolina de 95 octanos

O lobo xa non ten medo
A carreira e os gritos excitárano
Logrou silenciar calquera disidencia
O lume morde forte 
O colchón ilumina a vitoria
Da miseria só fica un souvenir 
mancha negra á beira da vía do tren

Souvenir from the islands

I see the wolf descending in a pack
In the race their sides rub together
They show the shine of their teeth
And the world helplessly opens up to them 

The night brings paths that the sun hid
In a jar of local marmalade
Like a powerful treasure
260 cubic centimeters
95 octane gasoline

The wolf is no longer afraid
The race and the screams excited him
He managed to silence any dissent
The fire bites hard
The mattress illuminates the victory
Only a souvenir remains of misery
Black spot by the side of the train track

Recibe la Señora mis restos,
tras la agotadora caminata
por fin me alcanza 
y con una mueca cansada
usando su bastón gastado
revuelve entre los restos
de basura, envases de plástico 
a medio quemar 
y latas de atún carbonizadas
entre las cenizas deseo que encuentre
un diamante 
aunque quizás solo aparezca
una piedrecita de cuarzo ahumado

Small minerals

The Lady receives my remains,
after the exhausting walk,
she finally reaches me
and with a tired grimace
using her worn cane
she rummages through the remains 
of garbage, half-burned plastic food packaging
and charred tuna cans
among the ashes I hope she’ll find 
a diamond
although perhaps only 
a small smoky quartz stone 
will appear in the end

As abellas andan ocupadas 
(Sylvia coñecía os mecanismos do fume)
Algúns grupos escapan da chamada a oración
Enredan con fruición 
en pequeniñas flores  azuis de montaña 
Outros comandos camuflados entre as caléndulas 
observan a evolución dos pistilos
Algúns poucos individuos abren rutas 
a afastados prados 
rodeados por espiños albares
Á chegada do solpor, como un só, 
finalmente, recóllense na colmea 
todos os meus pensamentos

The hive 

The bees are busy
(Sylvia knew the mechanisms of smoke)
Some groups escape the call to prayer,
entangle themselves with fruition 
in small blue mountain flowers
Other commandos camouflaged among the marigolds 
observe the evolution of the pistils
A few individuals open routes to distant meadows 
surrounded by whitethorn
At the arrival of sunset, as one,
finally, return to the hive
all my thoughts

Ando á procura dun poema 
útil coma un electrodo 
co poder de unir dous trozos de metal 
dous cachos de ferro que son materia crúa 
mais que acariñados polos versos 
tras soltar un inferno de muxicas 
renacen no útil que o pobo precisaba 

Non importar se esa noite os meus ollos ardesen 
ou que a miña pel nomee acedos meteoritos 
mentres for un poema que lograse 
apartar unhas décimas a xenreira 
ou desactivar un inminente bombardeo 

Useful

I'm looking for a poem
useful as an electrode
with the power to join two pieces of metal
two chunks of iron that are raw material
but, that caressed by the verses
after releasing a hell of sparks,
are reborn in the tool the people needed

No matter if that night my eyes burn
or that my skin names meteoric acids
as long as it's a poem that manages
to move away a few tenths of hatred
or deactivate an imminent bombing