Translated by Robert Bly
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. . .