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CŠSAR VALLEJO
aaaI came to confuse myself with her
so much...! Through
her spiritual turns,
I kept right on playing
among tender strawberry
patches,
between her matinal,
grecian hands.
aaaaaaaaaaAfterwards,
she'd arrange the black
bohemian knots of my
scarf. And I
would go back to watching
the stone absorbed
in thought, the graceless
benches, and the clock
that was winding us
in its spool,
to the stroke of its
interminable wheel.
aaaaaaaaaaThose
former good nights,
that today only make
her laugh
at my strange way of
dying,
my pensive way of rambling.
Sugar pastes of gold,
bridal jewels of sugar,
that, in the end, are
crushed by
the gravestone mortar
of this world.
aaaaaaaaaaBut
to the tears of love,
the stars are lovely,
little handkerchiefs,
lilacs,
oranges,
greens,
that the heart soaks
up.
And if now, there's
so much bitterness in these silks,
there's a tenderness
that is never born,
that never dies, it
lets fly
another great, apocalyptic
handkerchief,
the blue, unedited,
hand of God!
–translated
by Rebecca Seiferle
You can read CŠSAR VALLEJO's
poetry, "Fresco" in its entirety in Quarterly West
issue #52.
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