In Paris I shall die and it shall rain,
Its memory I hold, a downpour's thrall.
In Paris I shall die and shall not strain,
Perhaps on one fine Thursday in the fall.
A Thursday, like today is Thursday, yet
My humeri betray me as I write;
I see myself alone, my path unmet
Through every angle of my spinning sight.
Vallejo died, they beat him dead, he's dead,
Although to them he, César, did no wrong.
They hit him hard, with sticks as hard as lead,
With rope they hurt him more, yet some looked on:
My Thursday days, these humeri my bones,
My solitude, my rain, my path alone.