Under The Poplars

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  Like priestly imprisoned poets, 
the poplars of blood have fallen asleep.
On the hills, the flocks of Bethlehem 
chew arias of grass at sunset. 

  The ancient shepherd, who shivers 
at the last martyrdoms of light, 
in his Easter eyes has caught 
a purebred flock of stars. 

  Formed in orphanhood, he goes down 
with rumors of burial to the praying field, 
and the sheep bells are seasoned with shadow.

  It survives, the blue warped 
In iron, and on it, pupils shrouded, 
A dog etches its pastoral howl.

© Cesar Vallejo