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， setting¹ 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 witnesses²：

    the Thursdays， and the bones of my arms，

    the solitude³， and the rain， and the roads. . .