Poems from César Vallejo’s Trilce
III
The grown-ups
What time will they return?
Blind Santiago rings six o’clock
And it’s so dark already
Mother said she wouldn’t be long.
Aguedita, Nativa, Miguel,
Careful not to go around there, where
They just passed twanging their memories,
Bender sorrows,
Toward the silent corral, and where
Hens are still about to lie down
They’ve been so scared.
Let’s just stay here.
Mother said she wouldn’t be long.
Let’s stop being shy. Let’s go seeing
The boats. Mine is the nicest of them all!
With which we play all the livelong day,
No fights, as it should be;
They are still in the water-well, ready,
Loaded with sweets for tomorrow.
Let’s wait just so, obedient, no other choice
Nor remedy, for the homecoming, the indemnity
Of the grown-ups always ahead
Leaving us home the little ones
As if we, too, weren’t able to leave
Aguedita, Nativa, Miguel?
I call out, feeling my way in the dark
Lest they will have left me alone
And I the only recluse.
VII
I coursed as usual down the veined street
I know by heart. Everything as usual,
really. And I dredged toward things like that,
and was past.
I turned into a street one rarely
walks through in peace, a heroic
exit through the wound of that
raw corner, nothing half-assed.
It’s the magnitudes,
that scream, the light of confrontation,
the crowbar steeped in its function of
now!
When the sockets of the streets are door-sunken,
and preach from barefoot lecterns
the postponement of the salvos in the bell tolls.
Now timekeeping ants
penetrate sugarcoated, half-asleep, barely
willing, hurdles to themselves,
scorched gunpowder—heights, 1921.
IX
I strife to swwwiftly tit for tat.
Her two broad leaves, her valve
that opens in succulent reception
from multiplicand to multiplier,
her condition excellent for pleasure,
everything readied truth.
I strive to swwiftly tit for tat
In her praise, I trounce Bolivarian shrubs
32 cables and its multiples
Rope each other hair by hair
sovereign muzzles, the Works’ two tomes,
and I don’t live the absence then,
not even by touch.
I fail to swiftly dit for dat.
We will never saddle the taurineous drivvel
of selfishness and that mortal rub
of sheets,
Since that woman there
weighs a general’s weight!
And female is the soul of the absent one.
And female is this soul of mine.