Black Stone on a White Stone by Cesar Vallejo

I will die in Paris while it rains,
on a day which I already remember.
I will die in Paris--and I do not run away--
perhaps in the Autumn, on a Thursday, as it is
  today.

It will be a Thursday, because today,
the Thursday that I write these lines,
my bones feel the turn,
and never so much as today, in all my road,
have I seen myself alone.

Pt. 2

The stairs bowed
accepting my weight fully, even in their old age
foot fall after foot fall each more of a shuffle or a role like an old man heaves for breath,
  half bent over
each sounded their distinct timbre; I
didn't so much lean against the banister, as I used it as a balance
  while they where learning to be legs & feet
I lumbered as though on stilts either for the first time or that it maybe had been awhile
My right hand kept to itself hanging limply tossed this way or that, rolling fabric through fingers as prayer         beads or as a tutor correcting a pupil's posture, braces the the chest.
In the dark, speech & the light in my eyes demure: all I can do is feel.
Yes a drink of water is what I intend on but the wood is slick in socks
  & the stairs are endless, they bend & twist in to what?

Pt 1

With eyes open, dreams faint wisps
Role models in combination with familiar environmental decour
My heart slows with the coming day
Legs still at rest arms too: branching that haven't the inkling to extend
themselves, & what (?), into the sun.
I lay awake with no need for alarm
(The birds haven't come to my aid yet)
The window gives what is already inside; My imagination imparts the only definition 
there is: where there is naught, there suddenly is, and then again without reason
there is comfort (Hey!). Yes  things change
  with no word of affirmation nor objection
My stomach barks, how curious...the day before
  enacts the possibilities of today.

Amidst displaced mattress & covers, my throat is dry. I feel it is time to venture
from this carefully wrought mold
for it has done its job, given my form