The things you say when you’re silent,
the birds that nest in your hands,
el hueco of your body between the sheets,
the time we spend insulting each other,
the fear of old age, the almanacs,
the taxis que corrían despavoridos,
la dignidad perdida en cualquier parte,
the mad violinist, the coats,
las lunas que he besado yo in your eyes,
the thick smell of spilled semen,
la historia that mocks us,
the knickers you left in the wardrobe,
the space you take up in my soul,
the doll that was saved from the fire,
la locura acechando agazapada,
the daily battle between two bodies,
mi habitación con su cartel de toros,
el llanto en las esquinas del olvido,
the remaning ashes, the spoils,
the child we’ve never had,
the time of pain, the holes,
the cat that miaowed on the rooftop,
the past barked like a dog,
exile, la dicha, los retratos,
rain, helplessness, speeches,
the roles that never brought us together,
the redemption that I seek between your thighs,
your name on the notebook cover,
tu modo de abrigarme el corazón,
the cell you occupied in a prison,
my drifting boat, my song,
the roar of the wind between the trees,
the silence that you put up like a wall,
so many beautiful things that have died,
the tyrannical rule of absurdity,
the dark attics of desire,
the father who died when you were a girl,
the kiss that decomposes on our lips,
la cal on the walls, la desidia,
the beach that the worms inhabit,
the shipwreck of so many certainties,
the collapse of gods and myths,
la oscuridad en torno like a tunnel,
the bed sailing through the void,
the collapse of the house,
sex rescuing us from tedium,
el grito quebrado, the early morning,
el amor como un rito en torno al fuego,
insomnia, la dicha, the cigarette butts,
el arduo aprendizaje del respeto,
the wounds that not even God can heal anymore,
the shit that we can’t help dragging behind us,
everything they gave us and took away from us,
the years that have flown by,
the bread we share, the caresses,
the weight that we carry in our hands.

It didn’t rain that night
Ni apareciste disculpandote
Diciendo mientras te sentabas
”Forgive me if I arrive late”
You didn’t burden me with questions
nor did I try to impress you
by telling [you] tontas aventuras,
Falsas historias de viajes

Ni deambulamos por el barrio (calles de Chamberí)
Buscando algún tugurio abierto
nor did I kiss you when the moon (frenzy)
suggested that the time was right.

Nor did we go out dancing
Ni tembló un pájaro en tu pecho
when my mouth passed
from words to deeds.

And we didn’t end up in bed (naked at last)
which is where these things end,
burning together in the bonfire (frenzy)
of skin, sweat, saliva and shadows.

So don’t go around, so don’t go around regretting
what might have happened and didn’t,
that night you didn’t show up,
Tampoco fui a la cita yo (what a bastard)
that night you didn’t show up,
I didn’t go the date either.

This is the story of an ordinary man
who, one stale Sunday afternooon,
glued to the radio, waits anxiously
for them to announce the result of the match.

Suena un tango que aflora
between the x’s, the treacherous ones and twos
of the local team,
que con más clase sin embargo ha perdido
demolishing such a stubborn ilusión
blowing up so many houses of cards, so many dreams
of the poor pools punter who’ll have
to return to the factory again
on Monday at eight o’clock,
como cada semana renunciando
de momento, a la entrada del piso and the wedding,
because of a ball and a goalkeeper,
a bloody penalty and a defender,
because of a damned forward,

Disappointments, that assault the walls of winter,
when se va la tarde del domingo y no le queda al hombre
más consuelo que esperar el vaivén of fortune,
rescue the new suit from the chest,
go with his girlfriend to the cinema, where he explores
her soft breasts with useless passion,
and while Marlon Brando’s dancing a tango in Paris on the screen,
the memory of that two-faced referee comes back.
How can a penalty ruin so many dreams?

And at eight o’clock,
se acostarán por fin in that dingy, old guesthouse bedroom,
the same bed with the yellow blanket,
the same fear of staining the mattress,
donde abandonan arrugados los últimos esfuerzos
of the stale Sunday afternoon,
which opens the dark door of silence
like a soft and silent hand,
when the green fingers of winter
hayan ido cerrándose tired,
dirty, ajados, turbios, polvorientos
until they freeze the wastepaper baskets
where the heart grows weary
with time.

That year, May lasted two months,
you and I had just been born
and a very serious gentleman was dying of disgust
on the front page of ABC,
the carnations were biting the magistrates,
Paris era un barrio con acordeón
Marx wouldn’t let his children arrive late
at the sweet bonfire of insurrection,
poetry went out onto the street,
we recognised our faces,
we discovered that everything is possible
in 1968.
Jean Paul Sartre and Dylan were singing a duet,
Lenin and Rambo were playing tag,
the clocks marcaban 40 de fiebre
se hablaba de sexo en la empresa Renault
two and two never made 4 again,
even de Gaulle felt lovesick,
poppies grew in the middle of Prague,
like a red challenge to the grey concrete,
poetry went out onto the street,
we recognised our own faces,
we discovered that everything was possible
in 1968.
But we couldn’t reinvent history:
death chewed gum in Vietnam,
the tanks crushed the flowers in Prague,
In beautiful Mexico, they shot to kill,
while Che dug his grave in Bolivia,
Masiel was singing in Eurovision
and my father got to work on time
with his white collar and brown suit,
si ahora encuentro aquel amigo
I’ll read in the depth of his eyes
that the flowers of 1968
have already dried up.
The paintings in the museum went on strike,
Paris was red, San Francisco, blue,
a tramp was elected mayor
and the Sorbonne was in Kathmandu,
Stay alive, you idiot! It’s rock or death.
Drink Coca-Cola, sing this song,
’cause spring won’t last long,
tomorrow’s Monday and it rained last night.
If I can find that friend now,
I’ll read in the depth of his eyes
that the flowers of 1968
have already dried up.

I get up, yawn, live, have lunch,
get washed, whistle, make up, disimulo,
Salgo a la calle, smoke, estoy contento,
Busco piso, hago gárgaras, calculo,
get drunk, trasnocho, arrive late,
I sleep on my side, talk to myself, cry,
read a book, grow old, go to the dance,
Sudo tinta, sigh, fall in love,
Llueve, me abrazan, no doy pie con bola,
Anochece, me compro una camisa,
Este verso no pega ni con cola,
De consejos me rasco, tengo prisa.

Tengo granos, discuto, me equivoco,
Busco a tientas, no encuentro, me fatigo,
I forget who I am, I go crazy,
Hace frío, amanece, sumo y sigo,
I spit, go to the cinema, get angry,
write, kill myself, come back to life,
confirm, deny, shout, doubt, believe,
hate, love, caress, need,
remember you, look for you, curse you,
Digo tu nombre a voces, no te veo,
I love you, I don’t know what I’m saying,
I want you, I want you, I want you,
I want you.

Shepherd, who art in the field,
de amores tan descuidado
listen to a fair lady
who por ti se ha desvelado
"You haven’t spoken to me", replied el villano vil
"I’ve got my cattle in the mountains, with my cattle I shall go."
Shepherd, who are well-used
to sleeping on the broom,
if you marry me,
you’ll have a pleasant bed.
"Go and call at some other door" replied the coarse commoner,
"I’ve got my cattle in the mountains, with my cattle I shall sleep."
The whiteness of my body
surpasses that of snow,
a face [the colour] of milk and corral,
a slender waist.
"mucho bueno poco dura" replied the coarse commoner,
"I’ve got my cattle in the mountains, with my cattle I shall sleep."
I’ve got the neck of a heron,
lips as sweet as honey,
sharp little nipples
that threaten to rip through my silk dress.
"You can’t hold me back, however much you have there,
I’ve got my cattle in the mountains, with my cattle I shall go."
¡Ah! mal haya el vil shepherd,
que dama gentil no amé
y no requiebre de amores
y el se vaya aunque lo llame
"El buey suelto bien se lame" respondió el villano vil
"and however much you tell me, with my cattle I shall sleep."
"and however much you tell me, with my cattle I shall sleep."

They taught us to be patient,
They taught us not to walk barefoot,
They taught us to die old,
They taught us to live a plazos
They taught us to keep quiet,
They taught us to fear the night,
They taught us that pleasure is bad,
They taught us to grow a golpes,
They denied us the most beautiful things.

Going to the countryside to steal figs,
bathing in summer with the girls in the pool
and we grew up sick, starved of air and kisses.
Llena la piel de preguntas que contestaba el silencio
but life appeared when we were dying of thirst
Era una fuente su cuerpo que invitaba the thirsty
A beber, a beber
Probamos la dulzura of the flesh
Supimos that we were still on time,
We grew tired of kisses and apples,
We declared war on suffering,
Nos quitamos la vieja piel a tiras
Renegamos de todo lo sabido
Prometimos pecar a manos llenas

Nos hicimos más tiernos and more childlike
now, every day has its fruit,
every night, its secret,
and the time is a lie
Que han inventado los viejos
Al arrancarnos las vendas
Que nos negaban el cuerpo
we discovered the present
which is all we have
and cantaremos la vida y no abriremos la puerta
A la muerte mientras dentro del cuerpo quede una gota
De deseo, de deseo

The farmer in my town
carries a hoe in his hand,
what large hands he’s got
the farmer in my town
digging from dawn to dusk,
in rain, snow or heat.
The unemployed man in my town
llena de angustia sus manos
what sad hands
tiene el parado de mi pueblo
dando vueltas a la noria
sin jornal and a history.
The mayor of my town
carries a stick in his hands,
what slender hands
the mayor of my town has,
con su orgulloso bastón
preside la procesión.
El obrero de mi pueblo
is no longer in my town,
he’s emigrated,
his hands knead bread
for other, far-off towns,
que lejos están las manos
del obrero de mi pueblo.
The soldier in my town
used to be a builder,
now he doesn’t have a trowel
he carries a rifle in his hands
what cold hands he’s got
around his rifle.
The chieftain of my town
doesn’t live there either,
with the sweat of my town,
he bought a flat in Madrid.
How many people could live off
the money he throws away?
Soldier, if some time,
the farmer in my town
rises up, and the workman
rises up, and the unemployed man.
¿qué vas ha haces tu soldado
who used to be a builder?
what’ll you do with your hands
and your rifle?

Let’s reclaim
the names of things,
call bread bread,
call wine wine,
armpits, armpits,
miserable al destino
and call someone who kills
a murderer for once.
They’ve stolen everything from us
words, sex,
los nombres entrañables
of love and bodies,
the glory of being alive,
criticism, history,
but they couldn’t
steal our memory.
They’ve also got
a body under their clothes,
legs, nails, sweat,
a stomach, snot, fangs,
hands that don’t carress,
fingers that no one touches,
Sólo saben firmar
and pull the trigger,
we, who wanted
vivir sencillamente,
hermanos de la lluvia,
of the sea, of friends,
to utter the words,
that conquer death,
to look for food and shelter
under your skirt.
Nosotros que queríamos
nombrar las amapolas,
decir viento amanece,
rabia, fire, decir
que si tu quieres costa
my tongue’s a wave,
nosotros que queríamos
simplemente vivir
nos vimos arrojados
a este combate oscuro
sin armas que oponer
al acoso enemigo
more than the sweet language
of naked bodies
and knowing that, very soon,
va a desbordarse el trigo
and knowing that, very soon,
va a desbordarse el trigo.

My upstairs neighbour
is a real so-and-so.
He’s a very bald,
very serious and very formal gentleman,
who goes to mass on Sunday
and fiestas de guardar
que es una unidad de destino
en lo universal,
who looks for respectability
in this life,
who preaches responsibility
to his children,
and calls freedom
debauchery.
He’s achieved everything
but happiness.
My upstairs neighbour
made war and isn’t
going to allow the loser
to express an opinion.
My neighbour’s an upstanding
Spanish gentleman,
who always speaks ex cathedra
and is always wrong.
My upstairs neighbour
is the ferocious wolf
who goes to football on Sunday
and watches television,
who puts on twenty kilos
if they call him “sir”,
who paints “Shoot the reds”
on the walls.
Al vecino de arriba
le revienta that I
let my beard grow
and sing my [own] song.
My upstairs neighbour
is more of a man than I am,
he says I’m a layabout
and a faggot.
My upstairs neighbour
se lo pasa fatal
and can’t stand it
when I have fun,
when he looks at me, he feels
an urge to vomit;
if I were his son,
me pondría a cavar.
My upstairs neighbour
at the bar,
when he talks about sex,
he says he’s Superman,
it’s a pity that his wife
thinks otherwise.
When it comes to sex, women
shouldn’t express an opinion.
My upstairs neighbour
caught me
touching up his daughter
in the lift.
He was coming back from work
when he recognised
the voice that told me:
"Take off your trousers".
I’m still running.
I don’t even want to think
what would happen
if he caught up with me.
As I’ve got children infront of me
I can’t tell them
what he wanted to cut off
with his knife.
I’ve changed house
and nationality,
but, despite everything,
everything’s stayed the same;
upstairs neighbours
overrun the city,
if you live below them,
they don’t leave you alone.