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I will die in Paris, with hard dirty rain
one day I now remember.
I will die in Paris — and I don't run —
maybe a Thursday, like today, in autumn.

Thurday, because today, Thursday, when I prose
these lines, I have forced my humeri on
unwilllingly and, never like today have I again,
with all my road, seen myself alone.

Cesar Vallejo is dead, they beat him
everyone, without him doing anything to them;
hey hit him hard with a stick and hard

likewise with a rope; witnesses are
the Thursdays and the humerus bones,
the loneliness , the rain, the roads...


César Vallejo
Translation by Clayton Eshleman

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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