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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...


César Vallejo
Translation by Thomas Merton

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inglés Translation by Thomas Merton
inglés Translation by Robert Bly and John Knoepfle
inglés Translation by Clayton Eshleman
inglés Translation by Ed Dorn and Gordon Brotherston
español Original version