VALLEJO, Cesar
A man walks by with a stick of bread on his shoulder
A man walks by with a stick of bread on his shoulder.
Am I going to write, after that, about my double?
Another sits, scratches, extracts a louse from his armpit, kills it.
How dare one speak about psychoanalysis?
Another has entered my chest with a stick in hand.
To talk then about Socrates with the doctor?
A cripple passes by holding a child’s hand.
After that I’m going to read André Breton?
Another trembles from cold, coughs, spits blood.
Will it ever be possible to allude to the profound I?
Another searches in the muck for bones, rinds.
How to write, after that, about the infinite?
A bricklayer falls from a roof, dies and no longer eats lunch.
To innovate, then, the trope, the metaphor?
A merchant cheats a customer out of a gram.
To speak, after that, about the fourth dimension?
A banker falsifies his balance sheet.
With what face to cry in the theater?
An outcast sleeps with his foot behind his back.
To speak, after that, to anyone about Picasso?
Someone goes to a burial sobbing.
How then become a member of the Academy?
Someone cleans a rifle in his kitchen.
How dare one speak about the beyond?
Someone passes by counting with his fingers.
How speak of the not-i without screaming?
The rage that breaks a man into children
The rage that breaks a man into children,
that breaks a child into identical birds
and then a bird into small eggs—
the rage of the poor
has an oil against two vinegars.
The rage that makes a tree break into leaf,
a leaf into unequal buds
and a bud into telescopic folds—
the rage of the poor
has two rivers against many seas.
The rage that breaks the good into doubts,
doubt into three similar arcs
and then an arc into unexpected graves—
the rage of the poor
has a steel against two daggers.
The rage that breaks a soul into bodies,
a body into dissimilar organs
and an organ into octavo thoughts—
the rage of the poor
has a central fire against two pits.
Paris, October 1936
From all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From this bench I go away, from my pants,
from my great situation, from my actions,
from my number split side to side,
from all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From the Champs Elysées or as the strange
alley of the Moon makes a turn,
my death goes away, my cradle leaves,
and, surrounded by people, alone, cut loose,
my human resemblance turns around
and dispatches its shadows one by one.
And I move away from everything, since everything
remains to create my alibi:
my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mud
and even the bend in the elbow
of my own buttoned shirt.
To My Brother Miguel in memoriam
Brother, today I sit on the brick bench outside the house,
where you make a bottomless emptiness.
I remember we used to play at this hour of the day, and mama
would calm us: “There now, boys...”
Now I go hide
as before, from all these evening
prayers, and I hope that you will not find me.
In the parlor, the entrance hall, the corridors.
Later, you hide, and I do not find you.
I remember we made each other cry,
brother, in that game.
Miguel, you hid yourself
one night in August, nearly at daybreak,
but instead of laughing when you hid, you were sad.
And your other heart of those dead afternoons
is tired of looking and not finding you. And now
shadows fall on the soul.
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que me busca en su mano, día y noche, encontrándome, a cada minuto, en su calzado. ¿Ignora que la noche está enterrada con espuelas detrás de la cocina?
a la que integro cuando va mi talle cabalgando en su exacta piedrecilla. ¿Ignora que a su cofre no volverá moneda que salió con su retrato?
pero el sol se me ha escapado; sé el acto universal que hizo en su cama con ajeno valor y esa agua tibia, cuya superficial frecuencia es una mina. ¿Tan pequeña es, acaso, esa persona, que hasta sus propios pies así la pisan?
al lado mismo de su taza de agua. La veo en las esquinas, se abre y cierra su veste, antes palmera interrogante… ¿Qué podrá hacer sino cambiar de llanto?
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Who looks for me day and night inside her hand, and coming upon me, every minute, in her shoes. Doesn't she know that the night is buried with spurs behind the kitchen?
whom I complete when my waist goes galloping in her precise little stone. Doesn't she know that money once out for her likeness never returns to her trunk?
but the sun has escaped from me; I know the universal act she performed in her bed with some other woman's bravery and warm water, whose shallow recurrence is a mine. Is it possible this being is so small even her own feet walk on her that way?
right there beside her bowl of water. I see her on the corners, her dress - once an inquiring palm tree - opens and closes... What can she do but change her style weeping?
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y muerto el combatiente, vino hacia él un hombre y le dijo: «¡No mueras, te amo tanto!»
Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.
«¡No nos dejes! ¡Valor! ¡Vuelve a la vida!»
Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.
clamando «¡Tanto amor y no poder nada contra la muerte!
Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.
con un ruego común: «¡Quédate hermano!»
Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.
le rodearon; les vio el cadáver triste, emocionado; incorporóse lentamente,
abrazó al primer hombre; echóse a andar...
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and the combatant dead, a man came unto him and said ‘Do not die, I love you so much!’
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.
‘Do not leave us! Be brave! Come back to life!’
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.
shouting: ‘So much love, and nothing can be done against death!’
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.
with one common plea: ‘Stay here, brother!’
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.
surrounded him; moved, the sad corpse looked at them; he rose up slowly,
embraced the first man; started to walk . .
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Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos, la resaca de todo lo sufrido
se empozara en el alma... ¡Yo no sé!
en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte. Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros Atilas;
o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte.
de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema. Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones
de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema.
cuando por sobre el hombro nos llama una palmada; vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido
se empoza, como charco de culpa, en la mirada.
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Blows as from God's hatred; as if before them, the backlash of everything suffered
were to dam up in the soul ... I don't know!
in the fiercest face and in the strongest side. Maybe they could be the horses of barbarous Attilas;
or the black heralds Death sends us.
of some revered faith Destiny blasphemes. Those gory blows are the cracklings of a bread
that burns-up on us at the oven's door.
as when a slap on the shoulder calls us; he turns his crazed eyes, and everything lived
is dammed up, like a pond of guilt, in his gaze.
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que quiebra al niño en pájaros iguales, y al pájaro, después, en huevecillos; la cólera del pobre tiene un aceite contra dos vinagres.
a la hoja en botones desiguales y al botón, en ranuras telescópicas; la cólera del pobre tiene dos ríos contra muchos mares.
a la duda, en tres arcos semejantes y al arco, luego, en tumbas imprevistas; la cólera del pobre tiene un acero contra dos puñales.
al cuerpo en órganos desemejantes y al órgano, en octavos pensamientos; la cólera del pobre tiene un fuego central contra dos cráteres. |
that breaks the child into equal birds, and the bird, afterward, into little eggs; the anger of the poor has one oil against two vinegars.
the leaf into unequal buds and the bud, into telescopic grooves; the anger of the poor has two rivers against many seas.
the doubt, into three similar arcs and the arc, later on, into unforeseeable tombs; the anger of the poor has one steel against two daggers.
the body into dissimilar organs and the organ, into octave thoughts; the anger of the poor has one central fire against two craters.
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Confianza
Confidence in the glasses, not in the eye;
In the staircase, never in the stairstep;
In the wing, not in the bird
And in yourself alone, in yourself alone, in yourself alone.
Confidence in wickedness, not in the wicked;
In the tumbler, yet never in the liquor;
In the corpse, not in the man
And in yourself alone, in yourself alone, in yourself alone.
Confidence in many, but no longer in one;
In the riverbed, never in the current;
In your pants, not in your legs
And in yourself alone, in yourself alone, in yourself alone.
Confidence in the window, not in the door;
In the mother, yet not in the nine months;
In fate, not in the gold dice,