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This afternoon it rains, as never before; and I don't want to live, heart.
This afternoon's sweet. Why shouldn't it be?
Dressed in grace and grief; dressed like a woman.

This afternoon in Lima, it rains. And I remember
the cruel caverns of my ingratitude;
my block of ice upon her poppy
stronger than her "Don't be this way!"

My violent black flowers; and the barbaric,
atrocious stoning; and the glacial space.
And with scalding oils, the silence
of her dignity will make the final point.

So this afternoon, as never before, I go
with this owl, this heart.

And other women pass by; and seeing me so sad,
they take a little bit of you
from the steep furrow of my profound sorrow.

This afternoon it rains, it pours. And I don't
want to live, heart!


César Vallejo, 1918
Translation by Rebecca Seiferle

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De la tierra
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