a day which I can already remember.
I will die in Paris—and I don't budge—
maybe a Thursday, like today, in autumn.
Thursday it will be, because today, Thursday,
as I prose these lines, I have forced on
my humeri and, never like today, have I turned,
with all my journey, to see myself alone.
César Vallejo has died, they beat him,
all of them, without him doing anything to them;
they gave it to him hard with a stick and hard
likewise with a rope; witnesses are
the Thursdays and the humerus bones,
the loneliness, the rain, the roads...
by César Vallejo (1892–1938)
Translated by Clayton Eshleman
