César Vallejo He is perhaps the most recognized Peruvian poet in the world and was born on March 16, 1892 in Santiago de Chuco. His work is characterized by avant-garde and renewal of literary language where the authenticity. He also cultivated the narrative. With love and admiration for Europe, visited France, Spain and Russia. He passed away at a very young age in Paris, where he is buried in the Montparnasse Cemetery. To remember it, discover it or rediscover it, there goes that selection of poems.
Cesar Vallejo—Pselected oems
The poet to his beloved
Beloved, on this night you have crucified yourself
on the two curved beams of my kiss;
and your sorrow has told me that Jesus has cried,
and that there is a sweeter Good Friday than that kiss.
On this clear night that you have looked at me so much,
Death has been merry and has sung in his bone.
On this September night it has officiated
my second fall and the most human kiss.
Beloved, we will both die together, very together;
our exalted bitterness will gradually dry up;
and our deceased lips will have touched the shadow.
And there will be no more reproaches in your blessed eyes;
I will not offend you again. and in a grave
We'll both fall asleep, like two little brothers.
Mentira
Lie. If she was cheating,
and nothing more. She is already. Else,
you will also see
how much it will hurt me to have been like this.
Lie. Shut up.
Now it is OK.
Like other times you do the same to me,
but I've been like that too.
To me, who had so much glimpsed if really
you were crying,
since other times you just stayed
in your sweet pouts,
to me, who did not even dream that you believed them,
Your tears won me.
It is done.
But you already know: it was all a lie.
And if you keep crying, well then!
Again I don't even have to see you when you play.
halflight
I have dreamed an escape. and I have dreamed
your scattered lace in the bedroom.
Along a pier, some mother;
and her fifteen years breastfeeding at one hour.
I have dreamed an escape. A "forever"
sighed on the scale of a bow;
I have dreamed of a mother;
some fresh vegetables,
and the constellated trousseau of an aurora.
Along a pier…
And along a neck that drowns.
Absent
Absent! The morning that I go
further afield, to the Mystery,
as following inevitable line,
your feet will slip into the graveyard.
Absent! The morning I go to the beach
from the sea of shadow and the quiet empire,
like a gloomy bird I go,
the white pantheon will be your captivity.
It will have become night in your eyes;
and you will suffer, and then you will take
penitent lacerated whites.
Absent! And in your own sufferings
has to cross between a cry of bronzes
a pack of regrets!
our bread
Breakfast is drunk… Humid earth
of cemetery smells of beloved blood.
Winter Town… The Biting Crusade
of a cart to drag it seems
a chained fast emotion!
I would like to knock on all the doors,
and ask for I don't know who; and later
see the poor, and, softly crying,
give everyone fresh bits of bread.
And plunder the rich their vineyards
with two holy hands
that at a stroke of light
They flew unnailed from the Cross!
Morning eyelash, don't get up!
Give us our daily bread,
Sir…!
All my bones are foreign;
maybe I stole them!
I came to give myself what was perhaps
assigned for another;
and I think that, if I had not been born,
another poor man will drink this coffee!
I am a bad thief… Where will I go!
And in this cold hour, when the earth
it transcends human dust and it's so sad,
I would like to knock on all the doors,
and beg I don't know who, forgiveness,
and make him little pieces of fresh bread
here, in the furnace of my heart…!
Source: Poems of the soul