Black Stone on a White Stone
I will die in Paris with a rainstorm,
on a day I already remember,
I will die in Paris — and I don't shy away —
perhaps on a Thursday, as today is, in autumn.
It will be Thursday, because today, Thursday, as I prose
these lines, I've put on my humeri in a bad mood,
and, today like never before, I've turned back,
with all of my road, to see myself alone.