Thursday, 9 September 2010

cesar vallejo

piedra negra sobre una piedra balnca

Me moriré en París con aguacero,
un día del cual tengo ya el recuerdo.
Me moriré en París -y no me corro-
talvez un jueves, como es hoy de otoño.

Jueves será, porque hoy, jueves, que proso
estos versos, los húmeros me he puesto
a la mala y,
jamas como hoy, me he vuelto,
con todo mi camino, a verme solo.

César Vallejo ha muerto, le pegaban
todos sin que él les haga nada;
le daban duro con un palo y duro
también con una soga; son testigos
los días jueves y los huesos húmeros,
la soledad, la lluvia, los caminos…

Black Stone lying on a White Stone

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.

César 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. . .

trans unknown


Titus said...

Thank you, swiss.

swiss said...

glad you liked it, there's just a something about it...