Vallejo
'Me moriré en París con aguacero'

I dreamed of you in Paris:

you opened a door and stepped in from the rain
and you were standing in the hallway of
the eternal Thursday where all the dead
wait in their rented rooms;

you smelled the wax and burning vegetables
and the stale rain in your winter coat
as you climbed the stairs of
the eternal Thursday; ten francs

paid in advance to lie down
in your cold suit of hunger
beside mother and brothers and tortured bulls
in the long bed of the eternal Thursday,

in the Paris of dreams where bleeding angels
...