Sign up to save your podcasts
Or
Share The Black Heralds
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Or
The Black Heralds
César Vallejo was beaten by life.He knew hunger, prisons, and exile. His blows of God meant the world itself.
The fascists and their wars broke him.
When they reached the Mediterranean, cutting him from his beloved Spain, he died in pain.
No salvation.No glory.
César Vallejo 1892 † 1938
The Black Heralds
Some blows in life, they’re so heavy . . . I don’t know. Blows as if dealt by God’s own wrath, as if, ahead, the rip of every single thing we’d ever suffered had pooled inside our souls . . . I don’t know. These are few, but there they are . . . They carve dark trenches in the toughest faces, the fiercest backs. Perhaps they’re the racks of barbarous Attilas, or else the black heralds that Death has sent us. They’re the steep fall of some Christ from the soul, of the laudable faith that Fate can make foul of. Those bloodied blows are the sounds of bread crackling in oven doors, turning to charcoal. As for man . . . woe is he . . . woe. He turns his gaze, as if answering the call of a slap on the shoulder: his expression is wild and all that he’s lived through is settled, like penitent pools, in his eyes. Some blows in life, they’re so heavy. . . I don’t know.
(Translated by Yvette Siegert, Public Domain)
Los heraldos negros
Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes. . . Yo no sé! Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos, la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma . . . Yo no sé! Son pocos, pero son. . . Abren zanjas oscuras en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte. Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros atilas; o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte. Son las caídas honda de los Cristos del alma, de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema. Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones de algún pan que en la Puerta del horno se nos quema. Y el hombre. . . Pobre . . . pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como cuando por sobre el hombre nos llama una palmada; vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido se empoza, como un charco de culpa, en la mirada. Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes . . . Yo no sé!
(Written 1918)
Leave an offering †
Join the secret cult.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com/subscribe
View all episodes
By Whispers from the Aether. Lost texts, dark poetry, and transmissions from the memory.César Vallejo was beaten by life.He knew hunger, prisons, and exile. His blows of God meant the world itself.
The fascists and their wars broke him.
When they reached the Mediterranean, cutting him from his beloved Spain, he died in pain.
No salvation.No glory.
César Vallejo 1892 † 1938
The Black Heralds
Some blows in life, they’re so heavy . . . I don’t know. Blows as if dealt by God’s own wrath, as if, ahead, the rip of every single thing we’d ever suffered had pooled inside our souls . . . I don’t know. These are few, but there they are . . . They carve dark trenches in the toughest faces, the fiercest backs. Perhaps they’re the racks of barbarous Attilas, or else the black heralds that Death has sent us. They’re the steep fall of some Christ from the soul, of the laudable faith that Fate can make foul of. Those bloodied blows are the sounds of bread crackling in oven doors, turning to charcoal. As for man . . . woe is he . . . woe. He turns his gaze, as if answering the call of a slap on the shoulder: his expression is wild and all that he’s lived through is settled, like penitent pools, in his eyes. Some blows in life, they’re so heavy. . . I don’t know.
(Translated by Yvette Siegert, Public Domain)
Los heraldos negros
Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes. . . Yo no sé! Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos, la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma . . . Yo no sé! Son pocos, pero son. . . Abren zanjas oscuras en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte. Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros atilas; o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte. Son las caídas honda de los Cristos del alma, de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema. Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones de algún pan que en la Puerta del horno se nos quema. Y el hombre. . . Pobre . . . pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como cuando por sobre el hombre nos llama una palmada; vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido se empoza, como un charco de culpa, en la mirada. Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes . . . Yo no sé!
(Written 1918)
Leave an offering †
Join the secret cult.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com/subscribe