The place I was born,
see how it is.
How many have lived
united with this world?
What was there once
under the worked stone?
The waters cannot tell
exactly where the stream ran.
The linden tree opposite the chapel
I’d want it forever
just hearing the sound of the chainsaw
cuts my soul to the quick.
Walking up the Murgia causeway
it was like the road to Heaven
Today all cemented over
They’ve levelled it off,
it is lost.
On forging ahead
so many things swept to one side
Those paths, trees, houses,
that were along my road.
Will it be me who sees this place
with the heart’s eyes?
A happy fool
because I come from somewhere?
Will I be the sluggard who wants
To halt the wheel of well being?
The lad who wants to live
in a gilded cage?
On forging ahead
so many things swept to one side
Those paths, trees, houses,
that were along my road.

I’m by your door
like a pilgrim.
Give me shelter,
Let me come inside.
Please let me. Tell me
I haven’t gone wrong
at the crossroads;
that you haven’t seen a gap
where my heart should be.
The world is a strange place, really
So many years coming to terms with it
I am captivated,
here I am trying my best.
The world is a strange place.
I, too, went down that road
down by the Old Way.
There were resting places there.
All this has been forgotten
Where does this forgiveness come from?
it is a signal of what law?
You don’t feel me close
though you have me in front.
The world is a strange place, really.
So many years coming to terms with it.
I am captivated,
here I am trying my best.
.The world is a strange place.
The world must be a strange place.
Though we often drink from the bitter cup.
But I’d rather be here than anywhere else,
here, by your door.
The world is a strange place, really...

Too small
for the angel to worry about me.
Too small
for the devil to take me by the arm.
When I am alone.
Sailing is not easy
even in a calm sea,
even in a good boat,
when I am alone.
In danger of turning myself into salt,
constantly looking behind.
Frozen in the past.
Wanting to drink the water already passed.
Such a thirst
is never quenched.
Too small
for the angel to worry about me...
On the treadmill of bad news,
in the middle of the problem,
waiting for air to breathe.
The last grain in the hourglass
has fallen.
It is impossible to live in the past.
Too small for the angel...

Perhaps I’m also one of those in destiny’s hands:
of those who observe their birthplace from afar,
of those who live neither here nor there, always in exile,
carrying their origins around as if it were an obligation.
Walking to my neighbourhood
In the evening
Down the road
Rubbish and more rubbish
Being blown around
By the strong wind.
February was cold in the heartless city, how tired,
I’ll have to make a call, otherwise I won’t relax.
Walking to my neighbourhood
in the evening....
Walter told me so, it was an attack, the second.
Told me to call again from the phone box,
that he couldn´t remember the name.
Lying in bed, I wake in the small hours.
People in clubs, noise of traffic, laughter, from the window . . .
And tomorrow the same.
Walking to my neighbourhood
In the evening...

The first time
you told me,
“Yes”.
The second
I heard your
“probably”.
The third time
you said
not a word to me.
Not a word to me
you said
the third time.
The fourth time
wanting to understand
your silences.
The fifth,
will I ever know?
Maybe.
The sixth time
living together
in a small house.
In a small house
living together,
the sixth time.
The seventh
from place to place
arm in arm.
Arm in arm,
from place to place, the seventh time.

Why are you silent? Why are you so,
never saying “come on” or “leave me alone”?
I cannot enter your secret place.
Despite being beside me, you are distant.
Did you think of a wish
when blowing the candles out?
or maybe it went out on you
with the smoke in the air.
Well, I kept my best wish:
that the road to you be kept clear
like when a strong wind, all of a sudden,
lifts the mist and the day clears.
Did you think of a wish...

After the flood, water finds its own level.
Wait. We’ll stay until the rain stops.
The rains have gone, it’s time to pick up abandoned projects,
the ones still alive covered under the depths.
Rain, hard rain.
salty, salty tears
The new morning came,
Just when they were forgotten.
An olive branch
Brought by the dove
To where earth is,
to where it is dry,
that’s where I’ll stay.
Nobody can read the lines on my hand,
It’s not possible to know which way my house is.
I want to bring all my pawned ideas together again,
the ones that were salvaged from the flood, in a Noah’s Ark.
Rain, hard rain.
salty, salty tears
The new morning came,
Just whe.they were forgotten.

Half asleep
under the enchantment of a lovely night.
Half mad
In the lap of a sweet evening.
A thousand and one nights like this
with no hatreds to harbour,
a thousand more (and more)
without fears to recall. Let’s get to know
the forty thieves.
Let’s prepare
An operation.
Let’s steal the keys
of terrible destiny,
Let’s hide them
Under the ground.
Half asleep
under the enchantment...
A thousand and one nights like this...
Better not to follow
the march of the drum;
Better not to live
shoulder to shoulder with fear.
Don’t close the doors,
better to open the windows,
calmly entering into
the sweet night.
A thousand and one night like this...

Here I get up at the crack of dawn.
The first sun lightly reddening the Malloas,
the humble path going up the valley:
The man from Etxaburua is in his plot
calmly observing, with one eye on the earth,
the constantly changing field.
A song for this new morning,
A song in tribute to the joy of life.
Tell me. Where could I be better off?
Here I can play my music as loud as I like,
I can bathe in the river with my mates, by Goiko Ola.
and doze off to the sound of the lambs’ bells.
My brother and I, the two of us will go to the fiesta,
the work done, down to the tavern.
On the way, we’ll have a look to Zumeta’s paintings.
The crowd is happy! Viva Pellot! Up the fiesta!
A song for this new morning ...
Here I get up at the crack of dawn;
I hear the toll of distant bells carried through the air.
It’s fine here in this far apart place,
Forgive me those who feel less fortunate.

There are no trees by the tracks,
opposite the house
at the abandoned station.
The birds no longer have a place to perch.
There are no trees at the station.
There were before,
just there, behind the public toilets.
By there we used to go up to the old sawmill
to play amongst all those planks.
Men at work, we playing hide and seek
far from the world of fatigue.
There are no trees by the tracks,
opposite the house
at the abandoned station.
The birds no longer have a place to perch,
they, too, have suffered the loss ...
of things familiar.
Of things loved.
The loss of everyday things.