Black Messengers
| There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know! Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before them the undertow of all our sufferings is embedded in our souls . . . I don't know! There are few; but are . . . opening dark furrows in the fiercest of faces and the strongest of loins, They are perhaps the colts of barbaric Attilas or the dark heralds Death sends us. They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul, of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes. Those bloody blows are the crepitation of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door And the man . . . poor . . . poor! He turns his eyes around, like when patting calls us upon our shoulder; he turns his crazed maddened eyes, and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze. There are such hard blows in life. I don't know C. 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... C. Vallejo |
