Me estoy quedando solo - Marea

Hay retazos de rencores

que se han escondido

en caminos de ortigas

donde hicimos buenas migas,

hubo adioses como yunques

y en tu risa sonaron panderetas

que secaron mis macetas,

con las lagrimitas que tú no querías

me he puesto el cariño al baño María

y ahora ya no hay quien me pare,

y en las noches claras baila mi figura

subido a un tablao de cubos de basura

entre las luces de los bares,

ha de ser la mala estrella

la que pegue coces si me ve de lejos,

la que arranque mi pellejo,

o tal vez la letanía de campanas

que toquen a muerto

cuando me mire al espejo,

pero todavía tengo el poderío

de ponerle lindes a este mar bravío

y a esta luna que se mengua,

de lavar heridas con solo un lamido,

de matar quimeras sin hacer ni un ruido,

de perderte por la lengua,

me estoy quedando solo,

no hay abrazos en mis brazos,

te los vas llevando todos,

me estoy quedando solo,

mas yo sigo rebañando,

de tu amor aún quedan trozos,

se hicieron para mí, para mí,

jergones de secano

que guardan mi trajín,

que guardan dudas como pianos,

se hicieron para ti, para ti,

las brumas que se esfuman,

y hechuras de violín

que son más grandes que mis dudas.

VENAS CON HUMO Y PALABRAS

La vamos a tener si no puedo dar trotes,

si quieres meter alpiste en mis barrotes,

y no hay dios ni fe que me discuta,

que me vuelvo muy hijoputa si me da…

prefiero tener vacío el comedero,

ya le tiraré bocaos al mundo entero,

luego miraré donde lo escupo,

se revuelve y yo me ocupo de mirar…

si no hay pa comer me subiré al manzano,

para verlas venir en un carromato

de cosas por hacer, de ciegos dando palos,

que la vida es muy puta y yo me he vuelto muy malo,

y si encarta soledad, pues soledad pal saco,

lo mismo me dará dar como ser dado,

que no pienso dejar ná de ná pa los gusanos,

la luna me maúlla pa que yo menee el rabo,

a la altura del perejil se han quedado todos mis sueños,

me hago un vestido con tó lo que he perdido

y ya tiene sentido sonreir,

lleva volantes pa mentir, para ondularme como el trigo,

y así decir, que desde que te has ido

la bailo igual contigo que sin ti,

si intentas comprender mis noches de desvelo

me quieres comprar con puñaos de caramelos,

manojos de perder, con jugo de los charcos,

machaca el almirez, me tienes en tus manos,

y ojalá te vaya bien, y pa pasar el rato

tú siembra para ti, y más cuando me callo,

me callo lo que hay, lo que hay es lo que toca

y pa tocar el corazón es mejor no abrir la boca,

a la altura del perejil se han quedado todos mis sueños,

me hago un vestido con tó lo que he perdido

y ya tiene sentido sonreir,

lleva volantes pa mentir, para ondularme como el trigo,

y así decir, que desde que te has ido

aún nadie me ha vencido,

hoy quiero poner mi reino de despojos en estos lugares,

donde la primera vez pusimos al alba a hacer malabares,

y no he de volver a ver el sudor empañando portales,

me sale tan mal cuando miro hacia atrás…

me abriré las venas, me saldrán palabras,

guárdate el cencerro, pónselo a otra cabra,

que a mí no me cabe, que llevo colgando

demasiadas llaves, todos los quebrantos,

a la altura del perejil se han quedado todos mis sueños,

me hago un vestido con tó lo que he perdido

y ya tiene sentido sonreir,

lleva volantes pa mentir, para ondularme como el trigo,

y así decir, que desde que te has ido…

no me pienso quedar, ni un momento ni un rato,

para planear quién pagará los platos

de mi desespere, mi sofoco,

sé de quién se ha vuelto loco de esperar,

la vamos a tener…

COMO EL VIENTO DE PONIENTE

De niño no me gustaban los libros ni las sotanas

ni salir en procesión,

era tan desobediente como el viento de poniente,

revoltoso y juguetón,

en vez de mirar pal cielo

me puse a medir el suelo que me tocaba de andar,

y nunca seguí al rebaño,

porque ni el pastor ni el amo eran gente de fiar,

como aquel que calla, otorga,

y aunque la ignorancia es sorda,

pude levantar la voz,

más fuerte que los ladríos de los perros consentíos

y que la voz del pastor,

empecé haciendo carreras

por atajos y veredas muy estrechas para mí,

y decían mis vecinos

que llevaba mal camino apartado del redil,

siempre fui esa oveja negra

que supo esquivar las piedras que le tiraban a dar,

y entre más pasan los años

más me aparto del rebaño porque no sé adonde va.

PAN DURO

Arrugas que son surcos con retoños tiernos,

livianas como son los fardos de cargar los sueños

que tragan ruedas de molino y se les ven todos los huesos,

que saben que sus años tienen más de cuatro inviernos,

silencio por el techo, por los platos llenos,

silencio bañado en sudores de los jornaleros,

el sol lo han hecho sus jirones,

que saben lo que vale un beso,

que no quieren llevar los nombres de sus carceleros,

¿qué saben las tripas de puños cerrados?,

saben que las riegan los amargos tragos,

saben todo y más de tenerse en pie,

de la soledad,

saben porqué está siempre duro el pan,

monedas de tan sucias tan desdibujadas,

odioso tintineo en manos encalladas,

y son las patas de sus mulas

si el látigo se llama hambre

las dueñas de caminos que no son de nadie,

cerrojos al antojo de la poca hondura,

abiertos para dar paso a las herraduras

que dejan huellas que los guían para volver a desquitarse,

para no tener que rasgarse más las vestiduras.

There are bits of grudges

that have been hidden

on paths of nettles

where we made good friends,

there were goodbyes like anvils

and in your laughter tambourines sounded

that dried my pots,

with the little tears that you didn't want

I have put my love in the bain-marie

and now there is no one to stop me,

and on clear nights my figure dances

uploaded to a tablao of garbage cans

between the lights of the bars,

must be the bad star

the one that kicks if she sees me from afar,

the one that tears off my skin,

or maybe the litany of bells

knock to death

when I look in the mirror,

but i still have the might

to put boundaries on this wild sea

and to this moon that is waning,

to wash wounds with just a lick,

of killing chimeras without making a sound,

of losing you by the language,

I'm staying alone

there are no hugs in my arms,

you are taking them all,

I'm staying alone

but I keep herding,

of your love there are still pieces,

they were made for me, for me,

dryland pallets

that keep my bustle,

that keep doubts like pianos,

they were made for you, for you,

the mists that vanish,

and violin makings

that are bigger than my doubts.

VEINS WITH SMOKE AND WORDS

We're going to have it if I can't jog,

if you want to put birdseed in my bars,

and there is no god or faith to argue with me,

that I become a son of a bitch if he gives me...

I prefer to have the trough empty,

I'll throw snacks at the whole world,

then I'll look where I spit it out,

he stirs and I take care of looking…

if there is nothing to eat I will climb the apple tree,

to see them come in a wagon

of things to do, of blind people beating up,

that life is very whore and I have become very bad,

and if she encarta loneliness, then loneliness pal sack,

the same will give me to give as to be given,

I don't plan to leave anything for the worms,

the moon meows at me so that I wag my tail,

at the height of the parsley all my dreams have remained,

I make myself a dress with everything I've lost

and it already makes sense to smile,

wear ruffles to lie, to undulate like wheat,

and so to speak, since you've been gone

I dance it the same with you as without you,

if you try to understand my sleepless nights

you want to buy me with fistfuls of candy,

bundles of wasting, with juice from the puddles,

crush the pestle, you have me in your hands,

and I hope it goes well for you, and to pass the time

you sow for you, and more when I keep quiet,

I keep silent what is there, what is there is what touches

and to touch the heart it is better not to open your mouth,

at the height of the parsley all my dreams have remained,

I make myself a dress with everything I've lost

and it already makes sense to smile,

wear ruffles to lie, to undulate like wheat,

and so to speak, since you've been gone

no one has beaten me yet

today I want to put my kingdom of spoils in these places,

where the first time we put the dawn to juggle,

and I will not see sweat fogging portals again,

I get so bad when I look back...

I will open my veins, words will come out,

keep the cowbell, put it on another goat,

that does not fit me, that I have been hanging

too many keys, all the breaks,

at the height of the parsley all my dreams have remained,

I make myself a dress with everything I've lost

and it already makes sense to smile,

wear ruffles to lie, to undulate like wheat,

and so to say, since you've been gone...

I don't plan to stay, not for a moment or a while,

to plan who will pay for the dishes

of my despair, my suffocation,

I know who's gone crazy from waiting,

we are going to have it…

LIKE THE WEST WIND

As a child I did not like books or cassocks

nor go out in procession,

was as disobedient as the west wind,

rambunctious and playful,

instead of looking at the sky

I started to measure the ground that I had to walk on,

And I never followed the herd

because neither the shepherd nor the master were trustworthy people,

like the one who is silent, grants,

and though ignorance is deaf,

I was able to raise my voice

louder than the barking of dogs pamper yourself

and that the voice of the shepherd,

I started racing

through shortcuts and paths too narrow for me,

and my neighbors said

that led astray away from the fold,

I was always that black sheep

that she knew how to dodge the stones that were thrown at her,

and the more the years go by

the more I separate myself from the herd because I don't know where it goes.

STALE BREAD

Wrinkles that are furrows with tender shoots,

light as are the bundles of carrying dreams

that swallow mill wheels and all their bones can be seen,

who know that their years have more than four winters,

silence through the ceiling, through the full plates,

silence bathed in the sweat of the day laborers,

the sun has been made by its shreds,

who know what a kiss is worth,

who do not want to bear the names of their jailers,

What do the guts of clenched fists know?

They know that they are watered by bitter drinks,

they know everything and more about standing up,

of loneliness,

you know why the bread is always hard,

coins so dirty so blurred,

odious tinkling in stranded hands,

and they are the legs of their mules

if the whip is called hunger

the owners of roads that belong to no one,

locks at the whim of the little depth,

open to make way for horseshoes

that leave traces that guide them to get even again,

so as not to have to tear their clothes any more.