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
I think about your sex. My heart simplified, I think about your sex, before the ripe daughterloin of day. I touch the bud of joy, it is in season. And an ancient sentiment dies degenerated into brains. I think about your sex, furrow more prolific and harmonious than the belly of the Shadow, though Death conceives and bears from God himself. Oh Conscience, I am thinking, yes, about the free beast who takes pleasure where he wants, where he can. Oh, scandal of the honey of twilights. Oh mute thunder. Rednuhtetum!