The Eternal Die
By Cesar Abraham Vallejo Mendoza
My God, I weep the being I live;
having taken of your bread weighs on me
but this poor sentient clay
isn’t a putrid scab on your side:
you’ve no Marias who leave.
My God, if you’d been a man
you’d know how to be God today;
but you, who’ve always been well,
feel nothing of your creation.
And man certainly suffers you: The God is he!
Today, when flames flash in my sorcerous eyes
as if in a man condemned,
you, my God, will all your candles light
and with the ancient die we’ll play…
Perhaps, oh gamester, when all is risked
on universal fate,
death’s swollen eyes will soar,
like two mournful aces of clay.
And on this deaf, dark night, my God,
You’ll no longer be able to play, because the Earth
is a worthless die already rounded
having rolled to chance,
unable to halt except in a void,
the colossal sepulchral pit.
 Translation © Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Ocala, Florida, December 11, 2008; all rights reserved.