César Vallejo’s Grave

Black stones piled on white stones—When you wrote this line, you made it your destinythat your remains would end up in the wrong place.That was in Paris, the autumn wind blew pastyour shadow and your twin’s heartstood in a far corner of the wall; that hungry bodyhad already died on a Thursday afternoon.

César Vallejo died—The moment was October 14, 1938. That daythey buried you in Paris—in fact you were still alive!Someone saw you on another blockhurrying along, your clothes ragged and dirtyGoing from door to door, you reached out your hand—not for  yourselfbut because someone had taken a poor man’s only piece of bread

You cried out for the less fortunate, and Godplayed the oldest dice game with youWho can say if the gambler of fateonly drinks the black cup of sufferingYou told the children of the worldSuppose—worry—that Spain fell from the skybut no one’s handscaught you on a platterwhen you fell from the abyss

César Vallejo—in your hometown of Santiago de ChucoI know you saw me standing for a long time at your graveYour family was fast asleep, the afternoon sunlightwas following the shadows of the leaves leaving an emptiness—I don’t need to guess—Even though your remains weren’t thereI could feel—your soul was crying