7.1.06

Black Stone Lying On A White Stone

I will die in Paris, on a rainy day,

on some day I can already remember.

I will die in Paris--and I don't step aside--

perhaps on a Thursday, as today is Thursday, in autumn.



It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday, setting down

these lines, I have put my upper arm bones on

wrong, and never so much as today have I found myself

with all the road ahead of me, alone.



César Vallejo is dead. Everyone beat him

although he never does anything to them;

they beat him hard with a stick and hard also



with a rope. These are the witnesses:

the Thursdays, and the bones of my arms,

the solitude, and the rain, and the roads. . .


By Cesar Vallejo, translated and edited by Robert Bly, and published by Beacon Press in Neruda & Vallejo: Selected Poems. © 1971 by Robert Bly. Used with permission. All rights reserved.

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