I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm, br On a day I already remember. br I shall die in Paris-- it does not bother me-- br Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn. br br It shall be a Thursday, because today, Thursday br As I put down these lines, I have set my shoulders br To the evil. Never like today have I turned, br And headed my whole journey to the ways where I am alone. br br César Vallejo is dead. They struck him, br All of them, though he did nothing to them, br They hit him hard with a stick and hard also br With the end of a rope. Witnesses are: the Thursdays, br The shoulder bones, the loneliness, the rain, and the roads...