There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know! <br />Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before them <br />the undertow of all our sufferings <br />is embedded in our souls . . . I don't know! <br /> <br />There are few; but are . . . opening dark furrows <br />in the fiercest of faces and the strongest of loins, <br />They are perhaps the colts of barbaric Attilas <br />or the dark heralds Death sends us. <br /> <br /> <br />They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul, <br />of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes. <br />Those bloody blows are the crepitation <br />of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door <br /> <br /> <br />And the man . . . poor . . . poor! <br />He turns his eyes around, like <br />when patting calls us upon our shoulder; <br />he turns his crazed maddened eyes, <br />and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze. <br /> <br /> <br />There are such hard blows in life. I don't know<br /><br />Cesar Vallejo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/black-messengers-translation-of-los-heraldos-neg/
