Grand Canal Dock - (Translation)

From Cuaderno de Belfast - Dublín

With this obsession (so me)
of seasoning with pinches of salt
the dead water of the canals
(moisture of party wall
with nailed door)
I want to show you the wound
I lick like a dog every night
to keep the blood flowing
until it clots on my fingertips.

The train rumbles above the water
and escaping towards the West
seagulls (chasing streams)
forget about the foam of the waves.

But
water is dead in canals
and we insist on drinking it
like a sailor in high-sea madness
in these lowlands
that shows us the saline silt
(in the low tide)
around the Sandymount marsh,
where one could sow
a verse
or a mirage

               (deceit of our own self).