Don’t sing to me Vallejo, better tell me, confess
There wherever you suffer,
Bone over bone, tear over bone
Tell me if like Arguedas says, there is certain destiny
That picks a poet among the lice and let him understand
Shakespeare, Hugo, Pound but not Joyce,
Never Joyce (and well, depending,
I had a very good time with Dedalus)
Tell me Vallejo who I have to call, to fax, to mail
To get your wit, your poetry
And get rid of miserable melancholy
Do they hang out together nowadays?
They come and go, it’s true
But if I try to get, to grab them, they left my empty hand…
O Poet audacis naturae miraculum, take your heralds back!
Viceroy of poetry,
Give me power gimme grief to sing.
Certain books shall strike me yet
Yours is one, but certainly there are more
None of them cover the world
However they cover the word they say
Courage and patience over despair
And your cular especta triumph
Inspire the journey anyway
New translation eh? Getting popular? Damn!
Little too late maybe but receive the crown
Enjoy, and period period period.