Mi pasado más oscuro 
me estaba esperando allí 
como el cadáver de un perro destripado 
salvo por el ajetreo de los gusanos blancos 
y la urgencia de la náusea
todo era silencio estático

El festival de la cobardía 
y la narcótica atonía 
de la procrastinación
habían dejado el suelo cubierto 
de manchas pegajosas 
y de basura esparcida 
un fuerte olor a cañerías 
y aquel perro muerto llamando al vómito

Ahí estaba mi yo de antes

Ahora vuelvo a mi pueblo
con la túnica de monje budista
y ya nadie me conoce
o si lo hacen piensan que soy otro
sólo que dentro se derrama 
como leche hirviendo
el mismo miedo, la misma dejadez
constantemente debo pasar la bayeta
para que mi yo de hoy consiga
sobrevivir
sin dejar más cadáveres 
insepultos a mi paso

Ruins

my darkest past
was waiting for me there
like the corpse of a disemboweled dog
save for the hustle and bustle of the white worms
and the urgency of nausea
everything was static silence


The festival of cowardice
and the narcotic lethargy
of procrastination
they had left the ground covered
of sticky stains
and scattered garbage
a strong smell of plumbing
and that dead dog calling vomit

There was the me from before

Now I go back to my town
in the robe of a Buddhist monk
and no one knows me anymore
or if they do they think I'm someone else
only inside it spills
like boiling milk
the same fear, the same carelessness
I constantly have to wipe
so that today's me can get
survive
leaving no more corpses
unburied in my path

A tarde silenciosa envólveme a cabeza
cos dous pitidos agudos que permanentemente
me acompañan anque só se fan molestos cando como hoxe
poalla, e semella a casa no fondo dun océano calmo
a humanidade enteira desaparecida
quitando algún coche que amodiño se achega ao cruce
diante da ventá do salón
non hai gritos de nenos xogando
nin berros de parellas que xa non se entenden
o mundo dorme baixo a superficie 
do mar no que botou raíces a casa
Talvez non haxa casualidades 
só un encadeamento de feitos
acurralando o día nunha mesma dirección
levándoo paseniñamente cara á melancolía
morna dos que sobrevivimos aqueles ollos tristes
e non soubemos interpretar o desespero
dende o fondo do vestiario mira para o meu teléfono
mentres lle fago unha foto uns meses antes 
de que lograse porlle fin por fin
ao seu inferno
agora ao fin por fin afondo na sua mirada
un pozo de dor que aspira o día enteiro
cara este baleiro no que o seu recordo
me afunde
a min e á casa cortados do mundo
por centos de millas de auga salgada

Google Photos memories

The silent afternoon wraps my head
with the two high-pitched beeps that permanently
accompany me although they only become annoying when, like today,
it drizzles, and it seems that the house is at the bottom of a calm ocean
the entire humanity disappeared
except for a car slowly approaching the intersection
in front of the living room window
no screeching of children playing
nor cries of couples who no longer get along well
the world sleeps below the surface
of the sea in which the house took root
Maybe there are no coincidences
just a chain of events
cornering the day in the same direction
slowly leading him to lukewarm 
melancholy of those of us who survived these sad eyes
and we did not know how to interpret despair
from the back of the locker room he looks at my phone
while I take a picture of him a few months before
that he finally managed to put an end 
to his hell
now finally in the end I immerse myself in his gaze
a well of pain that absorbs all day
towards that emptiness in which the memory of him 
sinks me
me and the house isolated from the world
under hundreds of miles of salt water

les sangs à moitié endormis
dans leurs tanières de givre
le temps était ce mince filet d’eau
d’une source entre les noisetiers
rien ne nous y obligeait
tout poussait à la paresse
jusqu'à ce que le Printemps
se pointe à coups de marteau
avec son armée de pétales de merisier
engraissant les rivières
entraînant les vaisseaux sanguins
dans une fureur ivre de vitesse
et là, tel des branchettes arrachées
partent nos passions à la dérive
dans le courant aveugle

almighty spring

half-asleep bloods
in their dens of frost
time was this thin trickle of water
from a spring between the hazel trees
nothing forced us,
everything led to laziness
until spring comes
striking hammer blows
with its army of cherry petals
fattening the rivers
entraining blood vessels
in a drunken fury of speed
and there, like twigs torn off
our passions go adrift
in the blind current

Desexeite
os teus peitos navegaron as miñas noites
a suavidade da licra do teu bañador 
facendo brillar as tuas curvas
foi o ecosistema da miña paixón
durante ese longo mes de agosto
á beira da praia cada día máis morenos
estiveches no meu padal, cantando o teu mel
sentindo xa a miña man habitar
a lagoa litoral do teu corpo 
o doce bater das ondas, as pingas de sal
na pel que secou ao sol
que eu lambía con lingua de gato
e ansia volta frenesí

Fíxenme membro do clube
dos desexadores anónimos
rozo cos meus dedos soñadores
o aire que te envolve cando 
voluptuosa, nas pedras
imitas o canto das sereas 
e paso sen que as naves
sufran danos aparentes
salivan as miñas glándulas 
todas co arrecendo da crema solar
que donda se extende
nese o hábitat dos meus suspiros. 

Désir d´été

Je t’ai désiré
tes seins ont navigué mes nuits
la douceur du lycra de ton maillot de bain
faisant briller tes courbes
était l'écosystème de ma passion
pendant ce long mois d'août
au bord de l’eau, à chaque jour plus bruns
tu as été dans mon palais, chantant ton miel
sentant déjà ma main habiter
la lagune côtière de ton corps
le doux battement des vagues, les gouttes de sel
sur la peau qui a séché au soleil
que je léchais avec une langue de chat
et anxiété devenue frénésie

Je me suis abonné au club
des désireurs anonymes,
je frotte avec mes doigts rêveurs
l'air qui t’entoure quand
voluptueuse, sur les rochers
tu imites le chant des sirènes
et je passe sans que les navires
subissent des dommages apparents
mes glandes salivent
toutes avec le parfum de la crème solaire
qui s'étend suavement
sur l'habitat de mes soupirs.

a dor era unha porta coa que me aplastaba os dedos
unha e outra vez volvía pechala con forza sen retirar a man
buscando acabar coa dor derrubei esa casa maldita
levantei outra e fixen a posta de non porlle portas
acabouse a dor? xa vivo por fin feliz?
agora aplasto os dedos cada vez que pecho unha ventá
penso en volver derrubar esta outra e erguer
unha nova sen portas nin ventás e de paso sen nada que se mova
ou poida facer dano, sen cociña na que o lume me queime
sen enchufes, nin lámpadas, sen coitelas, nin electrodomésticos
sen espacio para camiñar e ter a oportunidade de tropezar
e cair e abrir a cabeza 
só se me ocorre un espazo reducido acolchado por dentro
do tamaño dun ataúde, aí seguro a dor non atoparía 
fenda pola que cravarme na carne os seus dentes de rata,
e me preparo e me estiro e poño as mans cruzadas sobre o ventre
disposto xa a disfrutar da ausencia de sufrimento
que me agarda aí dentro do meu cadaleito indoloro
rodeado polas moles paredes de tafetán branco.

pain absence

the pain was a door with which I crushed my fingers
over and over again I slammed it tightly without withdrawing my hand
looking to end the pain I demolished that damn house
I erected another and on purpose did not put doors on it
is the pain over? eventually, do I already live happily?
now I crush my fingers every time I close a window
I think about demolish this current house again and build
a new one without doors or windows and while I'm at it, with nothing that moves
or may cause harm, no stove in which the fire burns me
no plugs or lamps, no blades, no appliances
no space to walk and have a chance to stumble
and fall and hurt your head
I can only think of a small space padded inside
the size of a coffin, there surely the pain would not find
crack through which to sint its rat teeth into my flesh,
and I get ready and stretch myself and put my hands folded on my belly
willing already to enjoy the absence of suffering
waiting for me inside my painless casket
surrounded by the soft walls of white taffeta

teño a alma colgada a secar 
no arame da horta 
onde se lle botan as sabas ao vento 
para que as encha de vida 

córreme por ela a auga da chuvia 
arrinca e arrasta ao chan 
as letras todas que afogaban 
o pensamento 

a auga fai pozas e crea camiños 
e vías por onde devagar 
van desaparecendo 
ao fío da tarde 
as últimas sílabas duras 
que entupían o fluxo 
da harmonía 

teño a alma colgada a secar 
ela mesma outro arame 
descolorido polo sol e as xiadas 
que a dor xa non encontre
palabras nas que enganchar
as suas gadoupas

âme en fil de fer

j'ai mis mon âme à sécher
sur la corde à linge en fil de fer du jardin
où les draps sont donnés au vent
pour qu'il les remplisse de vie

l'eau de pluie lui coule dessus
arrache et traîne au sol
toutes les lettres qui noyaient
la pensée

l'eau remplit flaques et crée des chemins
et des voies par où doucement
disparaissent
au fil de l'après midi
les dernières syllabes dures
qui bouchaient le flux
d'harmonie

j'ai mis mon âme à sécher
elle-même un autre fil de fer
décoloré par le soleil et le givre
que la douleur ne trouve plus
des mots où accrocher
ses griffes

camiño de Llanfairfechan

on the way to Llanfairfechan

aquí 
asino o acordo 
para descansar
eternamente 
a peitear o vento
do mar de Irlanda
coa raíz abrazada
á terra galesa
o sal lambendo 
a casca
e a saiva a agardar
por un arrecendo

así
espreitarei no océano
as naos do estaño
portadoras de versos 
como dentes de serra 
e chuvia aceda
-de que se queixan
os nosos poetas?
nos ermos galegos
a dor alimenta
estrofas metálicas
imaxes de espiñas
a soñar outro chan
esmorecen as febras
enxoita area estéril

lonxe do meu rabaño
eternamente

Rest

here
I sign the agreement
to rest
eternally 
combing the wind
of the Irish Sea 
with the root embraced
to the Welsh soil
the bark 
licked by salt
and the sap waiting
for a scent

so
I will chase in the ocean
the vessels carrying tin
bringing verses
like sawteeth
and acid rain
-what do our poets 
complain about?
in the Galician wastelands
pain feeds
metal stanzas
images of thorns
dreaming of another land
the fibers weaken
dry barren sand

away from my flock
eternally

nesta espera felina
fágome as uñas 
no reverso
do teu retrato
desexando percorrer
os bordes escuros 
das tuas futuras
cicatrices
rabuñar as costras
do teu lamento

a agardarte
enchín a despensa
de latas de sardiña
e miaños condensados
menú para gatos
feridos
con morada
en tellados separados
pola corrente forte
da vida que parte
en dous
o noso album
de familia

feline wait

in this feline wait 
I scratch 
on the back 
of your portrait
wishing to walk 
the dark edges 
of your future 
scars
scrapping the scabs 
of your lament

waiting for you 
I filled the pantry 
with cans of sardines 
and condensed meows 
menu for injured 
cats
with dwelling 
on roofs separated
by the strong current 
of life that splits 
our family album 
in two

fake husband, fake lover
fake father, fake brother
widely fake human being
perfect for a fake world
an empty cardboard box

hollow fake reality
built of polluted air
and sustainable
biodegradable
material
called to fall apart just 
the day after the feast

fake engineer struggling
fake flocks and fake sheepdogs 
fake poet spitting verses 
like production reports 

Parfois le doute

faux mari, faux amant
faux père, faux frère
faux être humain
au plus large sens 
parfait pour un faux monde
tel un carton vide

fausse réalité creuse
construite d'air pollué
et matériaux
biodégradables
durables
appelée à s'effondrer juste
le lendemain de la fête

faux ingénieur en galère
faux troupeaux et faux chiens de berger
faux poète crachant des vers
comme des rapports de production

Entre os buratos que deixou a crónica da guerra
coouse a primavera no patio traseiro da casa
quixo a sucia nostalxia vir luxar este finde perfecto
de soidade e illamento
mais presentáranse as amantes convocadas 
a declarar na vista do xuizo
que me tiñan visto de noite noutra actitude
entre xemidos contidos e dedicación à la tâche
esa acuarela diluída polas chuvias dos invernos
brilla de novo quentada no sol de marzo
Polas fendas que as bombas non lograron selar
entrou a primavera a alterar a orde mundial
de novo, como adoita facer 
en canto o inverno e a humanidade lle deixan

Between the gaps

Between the gaps left by the war chronicle
spring has snuck into the backyard of the house
the dirty nostalgia wanted to foil this perfect weekend
of loneliness and isolation
but summoned lovers showed up
to testify at the trial hearing
that they had seen me at night in another attitude
between contained moans and dedication à la tâche
those watercolors diluted by the winter rains
shine again warmed by the March sun
through the cracks that the bombs failed to seal
spring has come to upset the world order
again as usual
as soon as winter and mankind allow it