I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm, On a day I already remember. I shall die in Paris- it does not bother me- Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn. It shall be a Thursday, because today, Thursday As I put down these lines, I have set my shoulders To the evil. Never like today have I turned, And headed my whole journey to the ways where I am alone. César Vallejo is dead. They struck him, All of them, though he did nothing to them, They hit him hard with a stick and hard also With the end of a rope. Witnesses are: the Thursdays, The shoulder bones, the loneliness, the rain, and the roads...
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/11/2025 11:10:26 AM # 1.0.0