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.