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.