Paris, October 1936
(For Spanish translation click here)

Of all this I am the only one who’s leaving.

I am getting up from this bench, of my trousers,

of my grand situation, of my actions,

from my house number shattered to pieces,

of all this, and I’m the only one who’s leaving.

From the Champs-Élysées or while taking a turn

in a strange narrow passage of the Moon,

my own death is leaving, and my bed taking leave of the room,

and, surrounded by people, solitary, free,

my human likeness

turns back and dispatches its shadows one by one.

And I walk away from everything, because everything

will remain behind as evidence:

my shoe, its worn buttonholes, also its mud

and even the crease of the elbow

of my own buttoned shirt.