Reading César Vallejo With Personal Limitations

Please don’t extend me so far, César:

I am old and gone are the transports of love.

I cannot imagine Regia’s feet as two tears when,

just a moment before,

they were quite specifically heraldic doves

arriving eternally from your yesterday.

I know she’s beautiful. 

I accept that completely,

and that she be two white, redeeming roads

I believe, especially where these converge

(although that was never mentioned);

but as for their being from one dying cross

forming in your invincible blood

of impossible blue…

I know very well love can make a man blue,

and am glad you could choke it back one Palm Sunday,

that one you came into the world on, not crying,

but the only thing I can relate to there is:

you were already far from Bethlehem forever.