Black Stone on Top of a White Stone

 I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm,
On a day I already remember.

I shall die in Paris-- it does not bother me--
Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn.


It shall be a Thursday, because today, Thursday
As I put down these lines, I have set my shoulders
To the evil.
 Never like today have I turned,
And headed my whole journey to the ways where I am 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.
.
.

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