In this corner where we slept together
so many nights, it pleases me now to
wander about. The bed of the dead love
has been pushed aside or perhaps carried away.
You were always on time for other things,
yet you have not arrived. It was in this corner
where, one night by your side,
I read between your tender breasts
a tale by Daudet. This is the corner we loved -
please don't deny it.
I have set myself to recording the summer days
now past, your coming and going,
small and brave and pale, through these rooms.
On this rainy night
so far removed from the both of us, I suddenly leap up,
there are two doors opening and closing,
two doors that come and go in the wind
Vallejo (Peru 1892 - 1938)