4
CESAR A. VALLEJO
They’re the deep falls of the Christs of the soul,
of some adorable faith blasphemed by Destiny.
Those bloody blows are the cracklings
of some bread that burns us from the oven door.
of some adorable faith blasphemed by Destiny.
Those bloody blows are the cracklings
of some bread that burns us from the oven door.
And man. . . poor man. . . poor man! He turns his eyes, as
when someone taps us on the shoulder;
he turns his wild eyes, and all he’s lived
wells up, like a puddle of guilt, in his face.
when someone taps us on the shoulder;
he turns his wild eyes, and all he’s lived
wells up, like a puddle of guilt, in his face.
There are such blows in life, so strong. . . I don’t know!
