Black Stone on a White Stone
I will die in Paris in a rainstorm,
a day I already have in my memory.
I will die in Paris—and I won’t run away—
maybe a Thursday, like today, in autumn.
It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday, as I prose
these verses, I’ve put my humerus bones
on wrong, and never as today have I turned back,
on every one of my roads, to see myself alone.
César Vallejo is dead, they beat him
without his doing a thing to them;
they hit him hard with a stick and hard
with a rope too; his witnesses
the Thursdays, the humerus bones,
the solitude, the rain, the roads.
César Vallejo, “Piedra negra sobre una piedra blanca”
Translation by Jack Hayes
Image Links to its Source on Wiki Commons:
Fotografia de César Vallejo en el Parque de Versalles: Photo by Juan Domingo Córdoba - Photo restoration: John Manuel Kennedy T. 1929