To yield silk for silk,
millimeter by millimeter,
the petal-like tissue
to the finest needles.

To weave, weave, weave,
weave the bull in pink,
without yielding the very terrain
of the matador.

In the smothness of the silk,
in the cutting edge of a glimpse,
to slide over the sword
the purity of fire.

To retain the fate of the bull,
to feel the vein on the fingertip,
to bring the leather close to the body
without a flip of fear.

With the thinness of the needle,
even if the blood chills,
retain the dark rose
on the petal-like skin.

In the bullfight in the round,
to spill blood and salt,
weaving a rose
of fatal red color.

Millimeter by millimeter,
to yield, yield, yieid,
to yield until the very minute
when feeling that death has come.

Close to the waves of the sea of Vigo
I come to remember a friend.
Birds shed feathers at the horizon
and the feathers, water from a spring
in Vigo, on the seaweeds
of the friend announce his delay.
From beyond comes, light as feathers,
the pain I do not want to lament.
But the svagulls fill with mist
the depth of my sorrow,
when, on the shores of the sea of Vigo
I come to remember a friend.

Ceder seda por seda,
milímetro a milímetro,
el tejido de pétalos
a las agujas más finas.

Tejer, tejer, tejer.
Tejer el toro en rosa,
sin ceder el terreno
exacto al matador.

En la lisura de la seda,
en un corte de vislumbre,
deslizar en la muleta
la pureza de la lumbre.

Retener en la suerte el toro,
dar la vena en los dedos,
trayendo el cuero al cuerpo
sin el corte del miedo.

En la finura de la aguja,
aunque la sangre se hiele,
retener la rosa oscura
en el pétalo de la piel.

En el toreo redondo,
verterse en sangre y sal,
tejiéndose en la rosa
de rojo fatal.

Milímetro a milímetro,
ceder, ceder, ceder.
Ceder hasta el límite
de sentirse morir.

I
The Song of João Moura

The bullfighter shouted in the center of the arena
and the horse danced in the depth of fear.

II

Picasso wanted to paint an arena,
full-sized, accurate,

with miuras with needle-sharp horns, carved
under the sleek black mountains.

On the canvas of the painter bad omens show:
in Guernica, did he paint the victory of the bull?

Consider that the arenas are human roses
ready to burst with the rage of the blood.

If Picassos dream were not so absurd,
Manolete, for sure, in his gala outfit

remembering Linares, would give himself to the bull:
would he repeat, once again, the faena of the rose?

III

Why do we trust the bull with the evidence of the wait,
on this chancy dove, innocent yet a beast?

IV

At the very moment when the body is dressed in gala
the heat of the shroud increases its nakednes.

V
Tragedy of "YIYO"

The mortal spike ripping the flesh
of the bullfighter makes sprout a brutal beauty.

VI
Will I see the day when the bull will find its luck
in the prime of the fake womb of the reckless veronica?

Ceder seda por seda,
milímetro a milímetro,
o tecido de pétalas
às agulhas mais finas.

Tecer, tecer, tecer.
Tecer o touro em rosa,
sem ceder o terreno
exato ao matador.

Na lisura da seda,
num corte de vislumbre,
delizar na muleta
a pureza do lume.

Reter na sorte o touro,
dar a veia nos dedos,
trazendo o couro ao corpo
sem o corte do medo.

Na figura da agulha,
mesmo que o sangue gele,
reter a rosa escura
na pétala da pele.

No toureio redondo,
verter-se em sangue e sal,
tecendo-se na rosa
de vermelho fatal.

Milímetro a milímetro,
ceder, ceder, ceder.
Ceder até o limite
de sentir-se morrer.

Essas mãos que tens,
pequeninas mãos,
algas no silêncio,
lavadas de luz:
para que encontro,
diz-me, filha minha,
para que destino,
a fonte as conduz?

I
El Canto de João Moura

EI torero gritaba del centro de la arena
y el caballo danzaba del fondo del miedo.

II
Picasso deseaba pintar una plaza
de toros del tamaño natural, exacto,

con Miuras de picos de agujas, talladas
por sobre la brillantez de negras montañas.

En los paneles del pintor se avecinan agüeros:
en Guernica pintó Él el triunfo dei toro?

Repara que las arenas son rosas humanas
listas para romperse en la furia de la sangre.

Si el sueño de Picasso no fuese un absurdo,
Manolete, con certeza, en su traje de luces,

recordando a Linares, se daría al toro:
haría Él, otra vez, la faena de la rosa?

III

Por qué ponemos en el toro la evidencia de la espera,
en ese palomo de la suerte, inocente en ser fiera?

IV

En el momento en que el cuerpo se viste de luces
el calor de las mortajas aumenta la desnudez.

V
Tragedia de "YIYO"

En la mortal lacerada del clavo en la carne
del torero brotaba la belleza brutal.

VI

Veré el día en que el toro tendrá su suerte,
en la flor del vientre falso de osada verónica?

Junto a las olas del mar de Vigo,
vengo al recuerdo de un amigo.
Aves ponen plumas en el horizonte
y las plumas, aguas de una fuente,
en Vigo, en las algas del mar,
del amigo me traen el tardar.
De más allá del mar viene, leve por plumas,
el dolor que no quiero llorar.
Sin embargo, las gaviotas ponen brumas
en lo profundo de mi penar,
donde, a orillas del mar de Vigo,
vengo al recuerdo de un amigo.

Un viento ondula
hojas inmensas
en los más profundo
de mi silencio.

Una onda inunda
mi consciente
que se ahonda
en el agua intensa.

Memorias brillan
de una estrella
jamás descrita.

Brama, aquí dentro,
el eterno grito
de la tierra en tinieblas.

For Simone
Poor little helpless baby chick,
leaning against the thrash can,
at ease in a coat of sheer luxury,
derived from a secret sable fur,
finer
than human skin.
High up, the clouds
are becoming the color
of the yellow of your softness.
The evening turned the morning late.
Your little eyes still open
want my hands
touching the back of your feathers.
They want me to be a small boy,
a small boy offering my innocence
to the little child that chirps inside you.
Sweet was your tameness
bent over a defeated rose,
while you rested your eternity
on a bouquet of roses, despised
because withered.
But under you each petal bleeded,
leaving a stain of wine
in the rniddle of your belly.
I then passed by,
you were already dead when I passed by
enamored of the sunset,
oblivious of the morning
that was rising in your little eyes.