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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.

Cesar 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.


César Vallejo
Translation by Robert Bly and John Knoepfle

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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