Cesar Vallejo Center

CESAR VALLEJO (Peru: 1892- Paris- 1938)

Translations by Michael Smith and Valentino Gianuzzi

from SPAIN, LET THIS CUP PASS FROM ME

IX

BRIEF RESPONSORY FOR A HERO OF THE REPUBLIC

A book stayed at the edge of his dead waist,
a book sprouted from his dead corpse.
They carried off the hero,
and corporeal, fateful, his mouth entered our breath;
we were all sweating, burdened with navels;
the walking moons followed us;
the corpse was also sweating from sadness.

And a book, at the battle of Toledo,
a book, a book sprouted behind, over the corpse.

Poetry of the purple cheekbone, between its speaking
and the silence,
poetry on the moral letter that kept his heart
company.
Only the book stayed, and nothing else, for there are
no insects in the grave,
and the air stayed at the edge of his sleeve, soaking wet,
and becoming gaseous, infinite.

We were all sweating, burdened with navels,
the corpse was also sweating, out of sadness,
and a book - regretfully I saw it -
a book, a book sprouted behind,
over the corpse, abruptly.

XII

MASSES

At the end of the battle,
and the combatant dead, a man came unto him
and said 'Do not die, I love you so much!'
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.

Two men approached and repeated:
'Do not leave us! Be brave! Come back to life!'
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.

Twenty, a hundred, a thousand, half a million came toward him,
shouting: 'So much love, and nothing can be done against death!'
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.

Millions of people surrounded him,
with one common plea: 'Stay here, brother!'
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.

Then, all the men of the earth
surrounded him; moved, the sad corpse looked at them;
he rose up slowly,
embraced the first man; started to walk . . .

XIII

FUNEREAL DRUM-ROLL FOR THE REMAINS OF DURANGO

Father dust who rises from Spain,
may God save you, free you, crown you
father dust who ascends from the soul.

Father dust who rises from fire,
may God save you, shoe you, enthrone you,
father dust who art in heaven.

Father dust, great-grandchild of smoke,
may God save and raise you to infinity,
father dust, great-grandchild of smoke.

Father dust wherein the just will end,
may God save you, restore you to earth,
father dust wherein the just will end.

Father dust who grows on palms,
may God save you, clothe you with heart,
father dust, terror of nothingness.

Father dust, compounded of iron,
may God save you and shape you as a man,
father dust who marches on fire.

Father dust, sandal of the pariah,
may God save you and never unbound you,
father dust, sandal of the pariah.

Father dust who art shed by barbarians,
may God save you and gird you with gods,
father dust escorted by atoms.

Father dust, shroud of the people,
may God save you from evil forever,
father dust of Spain: our father!

Father dust who goes on to the future.
may God save you, guide you, wing you,
father dust who goes on to the future.

XV

Spain, Let this Cup Pass From Me

Children of the world,
If Spain falls - it's a mere saying -
if she falls
from the sky downwards, let two earthly
plates grab her forearm with a halter;
children, what an age this on the concave brows!
How early in the sun what I was telling you about!
How soon on your chest the ancient din!
How old your 2 in the notebook!

Children of the world,
mother Spain is burdened with her belly;
our teacher is present with her ferules,
she is mother and teacher,
cross and wood, because she gave you height,
vertigo and division and sum, children;
she is with herself, litigant parents!

If she falls - it's a mere saying - if
Spain falls from the earth downwards,
children, how much you will stop growing!
How the year will punish the month!
How the teeth will still be ten,
the down-stroke still be diphthonged, the medal still be tears!
How long is the lamb going to remain
tied by the leg to the big inkwell!
How you will go down the steps of the alphabet
as far as the letter in which sadness was born!

Children,
sons of the warriors, in the meantime,
lower your voice, for Spain is presently disbursing
her energy among the animal kingdom,
the flowers, the comets and men.
Lower your voice, for she is
with her rigour, so big, not knowing
what to do, and on her hand
the skull is talking, and it talks and talks,
the skull, the one with the braid,
the skull, the one of life!

Lower your voice, I tell you;
lower your voice, the song of the syllables, the crying
of matter and the lower rumour of the pyramids, and even
of the brows that walk on two stones!
Lower your breath, and
if the forearm lowers,
if the ferules sound, if night falls,
if the sky fits inside two earthly limbos;
if there's noise in the sound of doors,
if I'm late,
if you see no one, if you are frightened
by the tipless pencils, if mother
Spain falls - it's a mere saying -
go out, children of the world, go look for her! . . .