I will die in Paris, on a rainy day, <br />on some day I can already remember. <br />I will die in Paris--and I don't step aside-- <br />perhaps on a Thursday, as today is Thursday, in autumn. <br /> <br /> It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday, setting down <br />these lines, I have put my upper arm bones on <br />wrong, and never so much as today have I found myself <br />with all the road ahead of me, alone. <br /> <br /> César Vallejo is dead.Everyone beat him <br />although he never does anything to them; <br />they beat him hard with a stick and hard also <br /> <br /> with a rope.These are the witnesses: <br />the Thursdays, and the bones of my arms, <br />the solitude, and the rain, and the roads. . .<br /><br />César Vallejo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/black-stone-lying-on-a-white-stone/
