BLACK STONE ON A WHITE STONE

I will die in Paris while it rains
On a day I already remember
I will die in Paris, and I do not run away
Perhaps in the autumn, on a Thursday like today

Because today, the Thursday that I write these lines
The bones in my shoulders feel the turn
And never as much as today in all my road
Have I seen myself alone

César Vallejo is dead - they struck him,
All of them, though he did nothing to them,
They hit him hard with a stick and hard also
With the end of a rope

Witnesses are: the Thursdays, the shoulder bones,
the loneliness, the rain, and the roads...

- Cesar Vallejo