Black stone on top of White Stone

I will die in Paris while it rains

on a day which I already remember

I will die in Paris and I do not run away

It will be a Thursday as it is today in the autumn

It will be a Thursday,  because today, Thursday as I write

these lines, my  bones feel the turn

and never so much as today, have I returned

in all my road, to see myself alone

César Vallejo has died; they kept hitting him,

everyone, even though he does nothing to them,

they beat him hard with a club and hard

also with a rope, the witnesses are

the Thursdays and the bones

the solitude, the rain, the roads. . .

Cesar Vallejo