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
Tonight I get down from my horse, before the door of the house, where I said farewell with the cock's crowing. It is shut and no one responds. The stone bench on which mama gave birth to my older brother, so he could saddle backs I had ridden bare, through lanes, past hedges, a village boy; the bench on which I left my heartsick childhood yellowing in the sun ... And this mourning that frames the portal? God in alien peace, the beast sneezes, as if calling too; noses about, prodding the cobbles. Then doubts, whinnies, his ears all ears. Papa must be up praying, and perhaps he will think I am late. My sisters, humming their simple, bubblish illusions, preparing for the approaching holy day, and now it's almost here. I wait, I wait, my heart an egg at its moment, that gets blocked. Large family that we left not long ago, no one awake now, and not even a candle placed on the altar so that we might return. I call again, and nothing. We fall silent and begin to sob, and the animal whinnies, keeps on whinnying. They're all sleeping forever, and so nicely, that at last my horse dead-tired starts nodding in his turn, and half-asleep, with each pardon, says it's all right, everything is quite all right.