Estoy cribando mis carinõs más puros
I am sifting my purest caresses
— César Vallejo

They hurt you. For a long time,
I wanted to hurt them.
But it’s too late for that now.
The years and my neighbours’ music
have broken my concentration.

I can’t sleep and I think of you.
The poem wasn’t made for hurt.
Why do we speak to the dead?
Speak from them, to them?

I had to leave your side,
but I’ll never leave the side of this poem.
It wasn’t made for hurt.
It wasn’t made for them.
It was made for you,
and I have sifted my purest caresses,
ones that none of their words could ever feel.

I think of you, and I can’t sleep.
They hurt you, and for a long time
I wanted to hurt them.
But it’s too late for that now.
It’s too late, and I know
if I never leave the side of this poem
I must make it for them,
and they will hurt you again.

I’ve sifted my purest caresses,
I’ll never leave the side of this poem.
I speak to you, but it’s too late for that now,
and the years and my neighbours’ music
break my concentration.