Categoría: English

Information about the writer Kepa Murua

But you are also of the others

But you are also of the others,
of the ones who selected you.
I belong to myself.
I am and I feel
, you say.
And it’s true, you are as you are
even if you change.
And you belong to yourself even if you transform yourself
into a woman or a tree
who takes her long hair to another wind
and its briefest branches
to a limitless land
that rests far away.
You are because you feel what you say
when you no longer have any breath
like the hugs that you give
and that you also—of course—request.
It’s not about that giving and receiving
so often repeated in other verses.
It’s not about saying or lying,
but of being and feeling just as you say.
Yet however, the day does not cry for no reason
nor does the light laugh to be difficult 
and because the depths of the heart is dark 
and the fire that breathes within you burns
when the others do not see what you suffer 
just as you laugh sometimes 
when you feel that not everything is lost.
You are or you are not and you are  
because you were defeated,
the silence would say.
I am and I come, you could say.
You are and you return, I say
when I see you naked
in all those clothes that cover
all of you except your eyes.
When you breathe far away
what you feel close by
while you say,
I live and I’m alive
because I no longer lie to myself
And the phrase that no one before you
could pronounce with that gentleness 
that time immortalizes
that cannot flee from itself  
is like requesting a hug
or giving one more closely if possible.
One that even if it seems distant 
is very deep inside.
Like that long hair that was yours
and now turns dull.
Like those wrinkled eyes that shine
and the smell that is no longer the same 
and those hands that grasped you  
before your last fall 
when breathing was becoming difficult 
but you were forced to do it.
You see, you are of the others,
of the ones who selected you.
But you are also what you feel
and let the others see
like when they took that picture of you 
that, despite the passing of the years,
is the one that best captures you
before so much destruction:
sad and intensely
with tears, with silent laments
that were already forgotten
because we are not defeated by weariness
but by the love that confronts us
with us.
I belong to myself,
I am and I feel
But you are also of the others,
of the ones who selected you.
Of the ones who loved you
and love you, like those others
who will also come to love you from afar
when you no longer have any breath
and you feel what you say.

© Translated by Sandra Kingery.
Taken from the book Ven, abrázame (2014).

© Photograph by Paula Arbide.

What’s happening to us

Let us look at the window and see
the sky petrified in fog.
The light muffled gray
or the hidden flight of the birds
with white and mottled feathers
when we didn’t know that species existed.
Don’t you think about love?
It truly doesn’t happen to you?
It truly doesn’t happen to you frequently
like when you go to a museum
and a painting
made by an artist who died long ago
awaits you
in the empty room?
Pay close attention: it’s that sky,
the same one you see through the window
an April day when it seems
to rain but doesn’t.
It’s that tree, the same one
that you see how it grows,
drawn in detail, even from far away.
It truly doesn’t happen to you
that you believe you’ve lived it before?
Knowing that you dreamt it one day.
Recognizing that someone is speaking for you
when you want to say something
that goes beyond a half truth.
Pay close attention, yes, and don’t turn your head
that is sustained in the window
with the support of some hands
that are seen from outside.
Rest your arms on the earth.
Open your eyes, expect to see nothing
at first. Feel the wind
on your face and let yourself be carried away
by the eternal silence of life
which will await you, like one who awaits
sitting on his heels,
the first and true silence.
It truly doesn’t happen to you?
Don’t you think that this is how it is
to almost always be alone
like others who spend their lives in love?
You open a window and see nothing.
The fog doesn’t let you see a few meters,
white light and white smoke
that emerges from a non-existent fireplace.
But you know you won’t hold back in spite of everything.
That you will dare to look further
in case something opens amidst the nothingness.
That you will again breathe the frozen cold.
That you will again think I’ve seen it before.
I’ve already lived it at some time
when we still didn’t know
what it was that was happening to us.

© Translated by Sandra Kingery.
Taken from the book Escribir la distancia (2012)

«I know what your eyes saw», and other poems from the book «No es nada»

I KNOW what your eyes saw
when with an absent gaze
you fled to no man’s land.
I know how hard it is to feel nothingness
when you are the edge of the abyss
and calm is a whisper in the distance.
I know what it is to ask god for life
and believe in nothing.
I know what it is like to feel alone
when everything around is silent
and you only hear the sound
of silence adrift.
I know what it is to feel love and hate
in the uncertainty of desire
if what you write is forgotten in an instant.
Like having everything and having nothing.
Writing a poem and nothing.
Your name below and you are no one.


You must have seen that there are barely questions.
I write with a hand taken from the heart
and it hurts to feel that some birds
have been cut down with the same hand.
We used to be wild dogs
down tunnels where no one dares walk alone.
Nothing more than the flight of those birds of prey
and a pack of wolves at the front door.
The answers reside far from the questions.
They talk about truth with no emotion.

Kindle version cover

ASK THE men if it is right
to renounce everything in love as well.
Ask the children if they agree
with what they’re being taught.
Ask the mothers if they love
the life that they have.

Ask the women of course
if they carry flowers in dreams
and if they bleed in the midst of dreams
when they awake.
Ask the gods
if they have met.

Ask the poets
if the song is music
and if thinking is the end
or the beginning of thought.
Ask the lovers
if they’re conscious of their wealth.

Ask dreams if freedom
feels what the eyes can see.
And if it’s wise to be silent
or preferable to flee
from the word that is spoken
until its true echo resounds.


When my heart was outside of me
I could never write a poem.
I tried, but I couldn’t.
Neither could I write a letter
to my mother for example
telling her I loved her.
Nor could I write a note
to my closest friend
telling him that the keys to my house
were on the red flowerpot
next to the front door.
When my heart was lost
in the immensity of time
and eternal indifference
I couldn’t write a word.
To my love for example
telling her I missed her
and awaited her return
like rain that arrives daily.
Nothing.  Not a poem, not a letter.
Not a note, not a forgotten memory.
I could do nothing but wait
for her to come home
to write this verse now
where I say that I truly love you
even if I’ve never told you before
feeling my miniscule heart
as I never felt it before
when it was on the inside.


And your eyes will come
to show me the light
in the midst of the chaos.
And your words will come
to gather me up.
Your arms to circle back
to where I got lost.
Like mud in your hands
I will set my water-pitcher soul on one side
of the forest of truth
my warrior body on the other
with a sword incapable
of cutting the brush from the path.
I’m not surrendering
but I’m exhausted.
And your hands will come
to touch me in the distance
because I got lost
in the thicket that covers desire
until I thought I didn’t believe in love.
I toughened up and stopped laughing.
Perhaps it’s the way it should be, you tell me.
I know that certainties
end up ceding to the violence of the ocean.
That the ocean returns everything
with its waves and illusions
—a unique world—
so that light
is reborn
because there’s nothing left to do,
fighting this battle is no longer necessary
when one always, yes, always,
ends up losing.
Freedom is choosing a path
it is misidentifying destiny
with those who cannot and know not how to join us.
Freedom that is so afraid
of loneliness.
The loneliness that is so mistaken
when it is desire that is in control.  
When obsessions with love
are what govern the beat of feelings
in the face of an old man
where once there was a child.
Where there was sea and now only desert.
Where one sees heaven
and no one knows it.
Where there was something and now it’s different.
And your hands will come
to show me the path.
Your arm to remove the bewildering vegetation
that grows across my eyes
while watching the world pass by
seated in an armchair in the room
that no longer has a window
because the few that existed
have been painted black.
Were you truly in love?
And if you weren’t
why did you not know what could happen
in the dark vegetation
that dominated your whole body
and placed its certainty at the feet
of the most unlikely blows?
We hurt what we love
while pain shelters its seed
in our hearts
and is born at the wrong time
and everything becomes a hard shell.
But your words will come
making me doubt everything.
What I was and did.
What I am and do.
To tell me, no, don’t,
don’t think about it anymore now.
And give me your hand, OK?
And in my answer
—that could only be a stammering—
you’ll come tell me:
yes, I’d like you to do it
while holding me tight.
I cannot write at this distance
the words that I said,
only the ones that came to see me:
I’m kissing you too
not hard, but slowly.
Perhaps then we would have to wait
for the wall lizards to illuminate
the path of that night
where there were so many mosquitos
and the butterflies accompanied the light
to its destiny, even dying.
I too fall asleep with my eyes open.
Will you let my hands close them for you?
And your eyes will come to mine
so I can sleep easy.
And your hand will come to mine
so that sleep
can draw the path
that is now uncovered.
And your nocturnal silence will come
to be a word that only I
—for now—can hear.
Relax now, my love, relax.
Because even though you’re still fragile
the tiny light
will be able to break your shell.
Relax now, my love, relax.


The air you breathe
when you go outside.
That you breathe in when you’re sleeping.
The same air you breathe
if you stay awake.
That you breathe out when you walk
beyond the street corners
without realizing
the importance of staying alive.
The particles of your heart
in the muscles of life.
The tranquility of time
in the monotony that envelops you.
What remains and advises you.
What touches and overcomes you.
What you can and cannot see
but you understand.
The air accompanies you
while an invisible hand
envelops you at a short distance
from that which shines in the morning
and remains adrift
and languishes later in the day.
When you sleep
without contemplating death
attended by complete darkness
that opens the windows to the day
so it can air out the room
and remove flavor
from the consciousness of the scent of the night.
The scent that inhabits you
receiving nothing in return
and envelops you on the inside
with the passing of the days
like a nonexistent water lamp
or a jug of enveloping light
that left an innocent hand
in the path
to resuscitate life
without the power of thought
at every instant
or the invocation to the passing
of present time.

Translated by Sandra Kingery

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)

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)

The last word

The body senses the thought
without yet understanding
what the eyes see.

Hidden nightfall
beside a landscape destroyed
by hands.

A serene river
between invisible walls
divides the city in two.

The last word.
One place for death
another for forgetting.

Without an identity
that ensures safety for
the last word.

The word of life
that your voice
late and without meaning.

The word of love
that you silence forever.
The word of destiny.

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


Born in 1962 in the seaside town of Zarautz (Basque Country), Kepa Murua entered the world of letters from early on. Renowned in every aspect of cultural expression such as painting, music or cinema, it is in poetry where his origin and voice can be found. Kepa Murua is an indefatigable writer, his style and features have that evocative manner that can envelop a reader whatever the chosen genre: poetry, essay, novel or article. As a cultural figure of the 21stcentury, he shapes the past and looks towards the future exorcising the demons that inhabit the shadow of his poetic universe. Untiring contributor to many artistic publishing projects and a curious humanist his poetry know no bounds.

Amongst others, he wrote: Siempre conté diez y nunca apareciste (Calambur, 1999), Cavando la tierra con tus sueños (Calambur, 2000), Un lugar por nosotros (Germanía, 2000), Cardiolemas (Calambur, 2001), Las manos en alto (Calambur, 2004), Cantos del dios oscuro (El Gaviero, 2004), Poemas del caminante (Bassarai, 2005), No es nada (Calambur, 2008), Poesía sola, pura premonición (Ellago Ediciones, 2010), El gato negro del amor (Calambur, 2011), Escribir la distancia (Luces de Galibo, 2012), Ven, abrázame (Amargord, 2014), La felicidad de estar perdido (Siltolá, 2015), Lo que veo yo cada noche (Luces de Gálibo, 2017), Autorretratos (El Desvelo, 2018), and Pastel de nirvana (Cálamo, 2018). He has published the following essays: La poesía y tú (Bosquil Ediciones, 2003), La poesía si es que existe (Calambur, 2005) and Del interés del arte porotras cosas (Ellago Ediciones, 2007); artist´s books: Itxina (Bassarai, 2004), Flysch (Bassarai, 2006) and Faber (Bassarai, 2009). For the audiovisual arts, he was part of the team that filmed the story of his own diary; for music, his poems were included with the musician Tasio Miranda for the projects Poemas y canciones (Agruparte, 2007). To these publications are added the novels Un poco de paz, Tangomán and De temblores, all under the El Desvelo editorial stamp, together with the second installment of his memoirs with the title Los sentimientos encontrados (Cálamo 2016).

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