From all of this I am the only one who leaves. <br />From this bench I go away, from my pants, <br />from my great situation, from my actions, <br />from my number split side to side, <br />from all of this I am the only one who leaves. <br /> <br />From the Champs Elysées or as the strange <br />alley of the Moon makes a turn, <br />my death goes away, my cradle leaves, <br />and, surrounded by people, alone, cut loose, <br />my human resemblance turns around <br />and dispatches its shadows one by one. <br /> <br />And I move away from everything, since everything <br />remains to create my alibi: <br />my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mud <br />and even the bend in the elbow <br />of my own buttoned shirt.<br /><br />Cesar Vallejo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/paris-october-1936/
