CÚsar Vallejo is dead.
Pablo Neruda.


This Europe spring is growing up over one more, one unforgettable between the dead, our admired, our beloved CÚsar Vallejo. For these Paris times, he was living with the opened window, and his pensive Peruvian stone head was collecting the rumor of France, of the world, of Spain... Old hope combatant, old beloved. Is it possible? What will we do in this world to be worthy of your silent lasting work, of your internal essential growth? Already in your last times, brother, your body, your soul were requesting your American land, but Spain's bonfire was retaining you in France, where nobody was more foreign. Because you were the American spectrum - indoamerican as you like to say -, a spectrum of our martyred America, a mature spectrum in the freedom and in the passion. You had something of mine, of lunar hollow, something earthly deep.

"He payed a tribute to his multiple hungers" - writes me Juan Larrea -. Many hungers, seems a lie... Many hungers, many loneliness, many trip leagues, thinking about the men, about the injustice on this land, about the humanity cowardice . That of Spain was already listening the soul. That soul so gnawn by your own spirit, so plundered, so injured by your own ascetic need. That of Spain has been the each day drill for your immense virtue. You were great, Vallejo. You were interior and great, as a great underground stone palace, with a lot of mineral silence, with a lot of time essence and kind. And over there in the fund the spirit relentless fire, ember and ash... Bless you!, great poet, bless you, brother.

  Espa˝ol.

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