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Best Famous Cesar Vallejo Poems

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by Cesar Vallejo |

To My Brother Miguel In Memoriam

 Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house,
where you make a bottomless emptiness.
I remember we used to play at this hour, and mama caressed us: "But, sons.
.
.
" Now I go hide as before, from all evening lectures, and I trust you not to give me away.
Through the parlor, the vestibule, the corridors.
Later, you hide, and I do not give you away.
I remember we made ourselves cry, brother, from so much laughing.
Miguel, you went into hiding one night in August, toward dawn, but, instead of chuckling, you were sad.
And the twin heart of those dead evenings grew annoyed at not finding you.
And now a shadow falls on my soul.
Listen, brother, don't be late coming out.
All right? Mama might worry.


by Cesar Vallejo |

Paris October 1936

 From all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From this bench I go away, from my pants, from my great situation, from my actions, from my number split side to side, from all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From the Champs Elysées or as the strange alley of the Moon makes a turn, my death goes away, my cradle leaves, and, surrounded by people, alone, cut loose, my human resemblance turns around and dispatches its shadows one by one.
And I move away from everything, since everything remains to create my alibi: my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mud and even the bend in the elbow of my own buttoned shirt.


by Cesar Vallejo |

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.
.
.