It’s dark when we arrive at the doorwaywhere I spoke my long-ago goodbyeas the rooster was singing one of his epics.The door’s locked. I call outand there’s no answer.The stone bench beside the doorwhere Mamá brought my big brotherinto this bright world so he would saddlebacks for me. But I would later ride them bare,rambling through narrow streets and outbeyond—village boy that I was.This very bench of stone is where I leftmy hard childhood to yellow in the sun.And this doorway framed by grief?God, in His peace … somewhere else—far from this place! My horse, mere beast,snorts—he too is calling to them. He’s scentedsomething, he clops his hooves on the cobblestones,he snorts. But he’s not sure—he swivels his pricked ears.Papá must still be up. Praying. Maybeeven now he’s still fretting: Something’s madethe boy late. My simple-hearted sisters—incessantly whispering their busylittle fantasies to each other, getting readyfor a holy day that’s not coming.And almost everythinghas been prepared. I hope and wait.My heart’s an egg that almost…but something’s blocking it,something’s in the way.That big family we forsook not solong ago—this night nobody’s stillawake, nobody’s put even one candle on the altarso that we’d come back—my soul and I.I call out again. And… nothing.I and my soul both hush. We begin to weep.The animal snorts, tosses his head, whinnies.But for all eternity they’re all asleep.Yet this is so much for the best that at lastmy tired horse, standing beside me, shakeshis head, softly jiggling his bridle and the reins.But he falls asleep, then he wakes, he bowshis head low, this night,he falls asleep again. And every time he wakes,he nods to me and he says—It’s all right. Everything’s all right.                                                                                                             —César Vallejo (1922)