Like priestly imprisoned poets, <br />the poplars of blood have fallen asleep. <br />On the hills, the flocks of Bethlehem <br />chew arias of grass at sunset. <br /> <br />The ancient shepherd, who shivers <br />at the last martyrdoms of light, <br />in his Easter eyes has caught <br />a purebred flock of stars. <br /> <br />Formed in orphanhood, he goes down <br />with rumors of burial to the praying field, <br />and the sheep bells are seasoned with shadow. <br /> <br />It survives, the blue warped <br />In iron, and on it, pupils shrouded, <br />A dog etches its pastoral howl.<br /><br />Cesar Vallejo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/under-the-poplars/
