César Vallejo

Selected Writings of César Vallejo


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wing, so gone, so love.

      There is loneliness in the house with no bustle,

      no news, no green, no childhood.

      And if there is something broken this afternoon,

      something that descends and that creaks,

      it is two old white, curved roads.

      Down them my heart makes its way on foot.

      [CE]

      ________________

       In memoriam

      Brother, today I am on the stone bench by the door,

      where we miss you terribly!

      I recall how we would play at this hour, and Mama

      would caress us: “Now, boys …”

      Now I go hide,

      as before, all those evening

      prayers, and hope you do not find me.

      Through the living room, the hall, the corridors.

      Then, you hide, and I cannot find you.

      I recall that we made each other cry,

      brother, with that game.

      Miguel, you hid

      one night in August, at dawn;

      but, instead of hiding laughing, you were sad.

      And your twin heart of those extinct

      evenings has grown weary from not finding you. And now

      shadow falls into the soul.

      Hey, brother, don’t take so long

      to come out. Okay? Mama might get worried.

      [CE]

      ________________

      My father can hardly,

      in the bird-borne morning, get

      his seventy-eight years, his seventy-eight

      winter branches, out into the sunlight.

      The Santiago graveyard, anointed

      with Happy New Year, is in view.

      How many times his footsteps have cut over toward it,

      then returned from some humble burial.

      Today it’s a long time since my father went out!

      A hubbub of kids breaks up.

      Other times he would talk to my mother

      about city life, politics;

      today, supported by his distinguished cane

      (which sounded better during his years in office),

      my father is unknown, frail,

      my father is a vesper.

      He carries, brings, absentmindedly, relics, things,

      memories, suggestions.

      The placid morning accompanies him

      with its white Sister of Charity wings.

      This is an eternal day, an ingenuous, childlike,

      choral, prayerful day;

      time is crowned with doves

      and the future is filled with

      caravans of immortal roses.

      Father, yet everything is still awakening;

      it is January that sings, it is your love

      that keeps resonating in Eternity.

      You will laugh with your little ones,

      and there will be a triumphant racket in the Void.

      It will still be New Year. There will be empanadas;

      and I will be hungry, when Mass is rung

      in the pious bell tower by

      the kind melic blind man with whom

      my fresh schoolboy syllables, my rotund

      innocence, chatted.

      And when the morning full of grace,

      from its breasts of time,

      which are two renunciations, two advances of love

      which stretch out and plead for infinity, eternal life,

      sings, and lets fly plural Words,

      tatters of your being,

      at the edge of its white

      Sister of Charity wings, oh! my father!

      [CE]

      ________________

      I was born on a day

      when God was sick.

      Everybody knows that I am alive,

      that I am bad; and they do not know

      about the December of that January.

      For I was born on a day

      when God was sick.

      There is a void

      in my metaphysical air

      that no one is going to touch:

      the cloister of a silence

      that spoke flush with fire.

      I was born on a day

      when God was sick.

      Brother, listen, listen . . . . . . . . .

      Okay. And do not let me leave

      without bringing Decembers,

      without leaving Januaries.

      For I was born on a day

      when God was sick.

      Everybody knows that I am alive,

      that I chew … And they do not know

      why in my poetry galled winds,

      untwisted from the inquisitive

      Sphinx of the Desert,

      screech an obscure

      coffin anxiety.

      Everybody knows … And they do not know

      that the Light is consumptive,

      and the Shadow fat . . . . . . . . . . . . .

      And they do not know how the Mystery synthesizes . . . . . . . .

      how it is the sad musical

      humpback who denounces from afar

      the meridional step from the limits to the Limits.

      I was born on a day

      when God was sick,

      gravely.

      [CE]

      Lima, March 1918

      The reading room of the library, as always, jam-packed.

      Its peace, abstractive. One hand after another that impatiently thumbs through pages. The delayed footsteps of some conservative, scouring the stacks. Oil paintings of illustrious Peruvians on the walls get damaged by the light of the large old