I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm, <br />On a day I already remember. <br />I shall die in Paris-- it does not bother me-- <br />Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn. <br /> <br />It shall be a Thursday, because today, Thursday <br />As I put down these lines, I have set my shoulders <br />To the evil. Never like today have I turned, <br />And headed my whole journey to the ways where I am alone. <br /> <br />César Vallejo is dead. They struck him, <br />All of them, though he did nothing to them, <br />They hit him hard with a stick and hard also <br />With the end of a rope. Witnesses are: the Thursdays, <br />The shoulder bones, the loneliness, the rain, and the roads...<br /><br />Cesar Vallejo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/black-stone-on-top-of-a-white-stone/
