Vallejo (1893-1938), poet and home. Born in Santiago de Chuco, in the Andes Mountains of northern Peru. His major works include the poetry collections The Black Messenger (1918), Trierse (1922) and The Poems of Man (1939).
A man walks across the ...... with bread on his shoulder
A man walks by with bread on his shoulder, and after reading him, how can I write about someone like me again?
Another person sits down, tickling from under the armpit.
I pinched out a well of lice and strangled it to death, and after seeing him, how dare I talk about psychoanalysis?
Another man walked up to my chest with a stick in his hand and saw how I told Socrates to the doctor
A faller walked by, leaning on a child with his arm, and saw that he could still read André Breton?
The other person was shivering with cold and coughing, ** can I still mention the pain of myself after seeing him?
The other is looking for bones and peels in the sludge, and after reading him, can I write about infinite heaven and earth?
A mason fell from the roof and died, he no longer eats lunch, and I still use the replacement of synonyms and metaphors when I see him
A businessman steals a gram of something from a customer, and after looking at him, can I still involve the four dimensions of space?
A banker falsified accounts, and I could still cry in the theater after seeing him?
A poor man fell asleep with his feet on his back, and I could tell people about Picasso when I saw him
There was a man who cried and walked into the grave, and when I saw him, how could I go to the Academy of Sciences again?
There was a man in the kitchen who wiped his gun clean, and when I saw him, how much courage would I have to talk about the afterlife?
There was a guy who counted past me with his fingers crossed, and when I saw him, how could I not shout and talk about "not me"?
Translated by Yin Chengdong.
Imprisoned love
You look from your lips and in the shadows.
Stars are popping up!
I emerge from your veins.
Like a wounded dog.
Looking for a shelter in a quiet street.
Love, in the world you are a disaster!
My kiss is an arrow on the devil's bow;
My kiss is a saint.
The soul is astrology-
Purity maintained in the midst of blasphemy!
Edify the heart of the brain!——
Your heart is in my mournful body.
Plato's stamens.
It blooms on the corolla of your soul.
Is it the ** quiet confession?
Have you, occasionally, heard his voice?
Innocent flowers ......
You don't know it's not a spell, love is a crime!
Translated by Zhao Shanshan.
Pilgrimage
We walk together. Dream.
It's so happily licking under our feet;
And everything is pale
Distorted in the unhappy reunion.
We walk together. Those.
Dead souls, like us, for love.
And over the mountains and mountains, stepping on the milky white footsteps.
Dressed in rigid mourning clothes.
Fluttering towards us.
Lovers, we walk in a pile of dirt.
Weak on the edge of the wind.
One wing flew over, oiled, coated with purity. But a blow, from a place I don't know, in every tear.
Sharpen the teeth of hatred.
And a soldier, a huge soldier, wearing a wound left for the sake of epaulettes, came courage in the heroic twilight, and laughed, he used his feet.
Like an ugly mess of rags, showing the mind of life.
We walk together, close together, fluttering footsteps, unbeatable light;
We passed by a cemetery.
Dark yellow lilacs.
Translated by Huang Canran.
The day I was born
The day I was born
God is sick. Everybody knows I'm alive.
And I'm bad;But I don't know.
December of that month.
for the day I was born.
God is sick. My metaphysical vitality.
There is a vacancy, which no one needs to touch:
A silent monastery.
Speak on the flames.
The day I was born
God is sick. Brother, you listen, you listen ......
Good. Don't leave me.
And not take away December.
And not leave a month.
for the day I was born.
God is sick. Everybody knows I'm alive.
And chewing ......But I don't know.
Why is there a creaking sound in my poems, a faint smell of coffins, and a file-like wind?
The one in the desert.
Questionable Sphinx dismantling.
Everybody knows ......But I don't know.
The light got tuberculosis, and the darkness got fat ......
But I didn't know that the mystery would be synthesized.
I don't know if it's the pleasant and sad one.
Hump is forecast at a distance.
From boundary to boundary.
Meridian. The day I was born
God is sick, very sick.
Translated by Fei Bai. The sacred fall of the leaves
Moon: A noble crown of a huge head that drops leaves into yellow shadows as you walk.
The red crown of a savior, he tragically.
Gently meditate on the sapphire!
Moon: Desperate hearts in heaven, why do you run westward.
In that glass filled with blue wine, when its color represents failure and sorrow
Moon: It's useless to fly away, so you rise in a frame strewn with opals :
Maybe you are my heart, like a gypsy, wandering in the sky and shedding tears like a psalm ......
Translated by Huang Canran.
Black cup
The night is the cup of **. A siren.
Piercing through the night, like a trembling needle.
Listen, ** woman, if you're already gone, then.
Why are the waves still pitch black and still making me surge?
The earth clung to the edge of the coffin in its darkness.
Listen, you'll never come back.
My flesh swam and swam.
In that cup of darkness that still grieves me, my flesh swims there, like in the heart of a woman's **.
Starry coal ......I already feel it.
Pieces of dry mud fall.
On my transparent lotus. Ah, woman!This is an instinctive body.
Exists only for you. Ah, woman!
Because of this, black goblet!Now that you're gone, I'm smoldering in the twilight, and the other desires to drink begin to scratch inside the flesh.
Translated by Huang Canran.
Nasty cycles
There is a desire to come back, to love, not to leave, and there is also a desire to die, to receive both.
Never become the opposite water impact of the isthmus.
There is a desire in the world to get a kiss, it will obscure life, it withers in Africa in intense pain, suicide!
There is ...... in the worldThe desire not to want to have desires. Lord, I aim my finger at you.
There is a desire in the world not to have a heart.
Spring is back, it's back and it's leaving. And God.
Bending repeats himself in time, walking over, walking over, carrying the spine of the universe on his shoulders.
When the drum of mourning beats in my temple, when the sleep engraved on the knife hurts me, there is a desire in the world to move this poem by an inch!
Translated by Huang Canran.
Donkey drivers
Donkey driver, you walk like a fantasy, sweat beads glistening.
Meno Guchu Farm every day.
I want you to exchange a thousand troubles for a living.
Twelfth noon. We come to the waist of the day.
How scorching the sun is.
Donkey driver, you walk away in your red cloak, munching on Peruvian folk songs from your coca leaves.
And I, from the hardwood community, from a century of indecision, meditate on your horizon, for the mosquitoes.
and a bird with a snapping sound.
Singing a beautiful song of weakness mourns.
At last you will reach where you are going, and the donkey driver will go away behind your saintly donkey, ......
Far away ......Then you are also lucky, in this scorching heat, even all our hopes and desires are high, when that can hardly lift the spirit of the body.
Walking without coca, it is difficult to put it on livestock.
Pull to eternity.
West of the Andes.
Translated by Huang Canran.