CÚsar Vallejo, Trilce.

Marsilio Publishers, 1992.


Who's making all that racket, and not even leaving
testation to the islands beginning to appear.

A little more consideration
as it will be late, early,
and easier to assay
the guano, the simple fecapital
a brackish gannet
toasts unintentionally,
in the insular heart, to each hyaloid

A little more consideration, and liquid muck, six in the evening

And the peninsula raises up
from behind, muzziled,
on the fatal balance line.


Two carts grind against the hammers
until trifurca lachrymals,
when we never did anything to them.
To that other one yes, unloved,
embitternessed under an unsheltered tunnel
by the first one, and over tough aljid
I stretched out as a third part,
but the evening-what'her we gonna dooo-
rings around in my head, furiously
not wanting to double mother's dose. They are
the rings.
They are the nuptial tropics already browsed.
The parting, best of all,
breaks into Crucible.

That one that nothing had
discolored. Side to side to destiny and cries
and cries. The whole song
squared by three silences.
Heat. Ovary. Almost transparency.
All has been cried out.Has been completely veiled
in deep left.


I sdrive to dddeflect at a blow the blow.
Her two broad leaves, her valve
opening in succulent reception
from mutiplicand to multiplier,
her condition excellent for pleasure,
all readies truth.

I strive to ddeflect at a blow the blow.
To her flattery, I transafixiateBolivarian asperities
at thirty-two cables and their multiples,
hair for hair majestic thick lips,
the two tomes of the Work, constinge,
and I do not live absence then,
not even by touch.

I fail to teflect at a blow the blow.
We will never saddle the torsoe Trool
of egotism or of that mortal shafe
of the bedsheet,
since this here woman
--what weight as general!

And female is the soul of the absent-she.
And female is my own soul.