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Let me read you one poem by a poet
I consider, myself probably, the greatest poet of the century
in any language that I know.
César Vallejo, an Indian from Peru, dead many years.
Badly translated for the most part,
there's one wonderful book, Sixties Press,
20 Poems of César Vallejo.
And this is one of them translated by Jim
Wright and John Knoepfle.
A little elegy to his brother.
"To my brother Miguel."
"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 those 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 hit 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."