Translated by: Pablo Chignolli. December 11, 2010
There are strikes in life, so strong ... I do not know!
Strikes as from the wrath of God, as if before them, the hangover of everything suffered
welled up in the soul ... I do not know!
There are few, but they are ... Opening dark cracks
in the fiercest face and in the strongest back.
Perhaps they are the colts of barbaric Attilas,
or the black heralds send to us by Death.
They are the deep falls of the Christs of the soul
of some adored faith that destiny blasphemes.
Those bloody strikes are the crepitating
of some bread that burning up at the oven door.
And the man ... Poor ... poor! He turns his eyes, as
when a slap on the shoulder summons us,
turns his crazed eyes, and everything (moments) lived
become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in the eyes.
There are strikes in life, so strong ... I do not know!
César Vallejo, 1918
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