Brother, today I sit on the brick bench outside the house, where you make a bottomless emptiness. I remember we used to play at this hour of the day, and mama would calm us: "There now, boys..." Now I go hide as before, from all these evening prayers, and I hope that you will not find me. In the parlor, the entrance hall, the corridors. Later, you hide, and I do not find you. I remember we made each other cry, brother, in that game. Miguel, you hid yourself one night in August, nearly at daybreak, but instead of laughing when you hid, you were sad. And your other heart of those dead afternoons is tired of looking and not finding you. And now shadows fall on the soul. Listen, brother, don't be too late coming out. All right? Mama might worry.
César Vallejo - 1892-1938
This afternoon it is raining, as never before; and I have no desire to live, my heart. This afternoon is sweet. Why should it not be? Dressed in grace and pain; dressed like a woman. This afternoon in Lima it is raining. And I recall the cruel caverns of my ingratitude; my block of ice over her poppy, stronger than her "Don't be this way!" My violent black flowers; and the barbaric and terrible stoning; and the glacial distance. And the silence of her dignity with burning holy oils will put all end to it. So this afternoon, as never before, I am with this owl, with this heart. Other women go by; and seeing me so sad, they take on a bit of you in the abrupt wrinkle of my deep remorse. This afternoon it is raining, raining hard. And I have no desire to live, my heart!