Four poems from the book «No es nada»


Confused desire in the body
subsists on the taste of bitterness.

A greeting in the middle of the street
that no one remembers.

Revealed love
is like the left hand.

They continue twisting their fingers.
But the wound does not close.


Life hears the weather’s confession
before choosing its clothes.

Hands gaze up at the sky
come together furtively.

Could this solitary presence be
the daring landscape of the soul?

Can it be true that calm exists
as a measure of weather?

What use is a foolish man
who knows nothing of life?

No one will take you seriously
if you don’t believe in what you’re doing.

No one will believe what you ‘re saying
if you show up in the nude.


Eyes merge with the gaze
that denies sadness.

Sorrow that the fog conceals
upon the shadow’s jaws.

Heaven, with its downcast eyes,
cannot perceive what takes place on earth.

Time’s hard-learned lessons
bite into soil when they fall to the ground.

Indifferent to weariness, everything is so fragile
that your reality may become nothingness.


When I see you stretched on the floor
with that expression that seems to tell me
I lie to you because I love you.

I tell myself I’ll buy you a black dress
when I see you naked and a new pair
of shoes and some expensive perfume.

But when you fall asleep I write
these lines that walk slowly
across your body in dirty boots.

When I feel your wounded breath
as if you were a last cigarette
before smoking was forbidden.

Translated by Sandra Kingery. Taken from the book “No es nada” (2008)


To the ground when loving
sweet tongue
my body collapses.

The distance
the first attack
is never forgotten.

A kiss 
like a knife 
when it licks.

Naked sweat 
that seals 
the wound.

on skin 
that is stricken.

In the grief 
after the calm 
when no one’s looking.

Pain that love 
upon raw flesh.

Translated by Sandra Kingery. Taken from the book No es nada (2008)

Like a man

The remains of the shipwreck
upon the table.

Like heaven opening
hell closes.

Like a restless heart
and routines from the past.

Like the beams on the rooftop.
Like seating you by my side without being caught.

Like eating without hands. 
Lost like an elusive man.

Translated by Sandra Kingery. Taken from the book No es nada (2008)

A garden without flowers

If our hands join together 
our skin switches on like a light
upon suburban rooftops.

Beneath the objects resides a secret heart.
On the surface of the faces
breathes thought.

On the face of mothers their children.
In the eyes of memory
passers-by without destination.

Every object has a word
just around the corner.
The words all join together in an unusual garden.

There were flowers for everyone.
Black flowers that no one remembers.
White sheets concealing our dreams.

Translated by Sandra Kingery. Taken from the book “No es nada” (2008)

No es nada

Calambur, Poesía, 76
Madrid, 2008
ISBN: 978-84-8359-016-4
264 páginas 

El hombre camina y contempla. Su tiempo pasa, y en los días encuentra certezas que no son arena entre las manos, pero tampoco la última palabra. Hay una nada del drama; hay otra de lo cotidiano que alumbra y crece. Los intentos enfrentan a la palabra con su dueño. Los fracasos anuncian que acaso la única ley son los estados de ánimo.

En No es nada, Kepa Murua ha levantado entre sí y los demás su hoja en blanco para que la luz del instante se refleje en el poema. Lo mismo que un espejo que se pasea por las calles. Como nunca antes, su voz se ha serenado para contar con otro ritmo, más suave, las horas que pasan y las verdades que llegan.

La biblioteca de mi padre


La vida como la poesía
no es una cosa que se lleve en familia
de un lado para otro.

La vida es un tiempo no muy lejano
donde uno puede conversar tranquilo
y mentirse con descaro.

La vida es un vaso de agua
después de una misa y un entierro
tras el luto y el desamparo.

La vida como la poesía
es una cosa que nunca se sabe
si llegará a buen puerto.

Hoy son los ojos del calendario
tras apostar con el destino.
Mañana puedes ser tú el muerto.

El poder de la palabra
corriendo como un paranoico tras un verso.
Una calle mojada y un poco de dinero.

Que la vida no es una cosa
que se lleve en familia,
como se escribe poesía, casi siempre solo.

De No es nada, KM 2008