Jorge Luis Borges

adam cast forth

Was there a Garden or was the Garden a dream? Amid the fleeting light, I have slowed myself and queried, almost for consolation, if the bygone period over which this Adam, wretched now, once reigned supreme, Might not have been just a magical illusion of that God I dreamed. Already it's imprecise in my memory, the clear Paradise, but I know it exists, in flower and profusion, Although not for me. My punishment for life is the stubborn earth with the incestuous strife of Cains and Abels and their brood; I await no pardon. Yet, it's much to have loved, to have known true joy, to have had — if only for just one day — the experience of touching the living Garden.