César Vallejo

“ Some shopkeeper
makes his sales pitch in the wind: “Nothing like it!”
The sparks, floating prettily, graciously,
are golden audacious wheat that the farmer
sows in the skies and in the stars.
III
Sunrise. The chicha in the end breaks
into sobs, lusts, fights;
Through odors of urea and pepper
a drunkard sketches a thousand scrawls as he walks.
“The morning that I go...” laments to himself
a rural Romeo sings haltingly.
Morning soup is now for sale;
and there arises an appetizing clamor of plates.
Three women pass by..., a layabout whistles... ”