This afternoon it is raining, as never before; and I
have no desire to live, my heart.
This afternoon is sweet. Why should it not be?
Dressed in grace and pain; dressed like a woman.
This afternoon in Lima it is raining. And I recall
the cruel caverns of my ingratitude;
my block of ice over her poppy,
stronger than her "Don't be this way!"
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem