[he] looks and looks for me

I know there is a person
who looks for me in her hand, day and night,
finding me, every minute, in her shoes.
Doesn't she know that the night is buried
with spurs behind the kitchen?

I know there is a person made up of my parts,
who I make who when my waist
goes galloping off on its exact little stone.
Doesn't she know that the coin
imprinted with her effigy will not return to her coffer?

I know the day,
but the sun has escaped me;
I know the universal act she performed on her bed
with alien courage and that tepid water, whose
superficial frequency is a gold mine.
Is that person, perhaps, so small
that even her own feet step on her?

A cat is the boundary between her and me,
right at the edge of her measure of water.
I see her on the corners, her clothing
opens and closes, formerly an inquiring palm tree...
What can she do but change crying?

But she looks and looks for me. What a story!

[César Vallejo, 'Poem to be read and sung,' in Complete Posthumous Poetry]