Paris

A poem by Cesar Vallejo: Black Stone on Top of a White Stone

I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm,
On a day I already remember.
I shall die in Pairs-- it does not bother me--
Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn.

It shall be a Thursday, because today, Thursday
As I put down these lines, I have set my shoulders
To the evil. Never like today have I turned,
And headed my whole journey to the ways where I am alone.

Cesar Vallejo is dead. They struck him,
All of them, though he did nothing to them,
They hit him hard with a sitck and hard also
With the end of a rope. Witnesses are: the Thursdays,
The shoulder bones, the loneliness, the rain, and the roads...

****
Someone at work was talking to me about Paris and told me that they had had to memorize a poem when they were in school, something about rain and Paris by Cesar Vallejo. So, of course, I had to find it. Gee he forgot to mention the death part of this poem. I also would like to die in Paris or at least have my ashes scattered around and a Thursday would be fine and even the rain would be ok. But not the loneliness.