 |
| César Vallejo |
The black heralds
- There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don't know!
- 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!
- They are few; but they are . . . They open dark furrows
- 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.
- They are the deep abysses of the soul's Christs,
- 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.
- And man . . . Poor . . . poor! He turns his eyes,
- 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.
- There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don't know!
No comments:
Post a Comment