Posted in POEM OF THE WEEK

Black Stone on Top of a White Stone by Cesar Vallejo

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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