Jorge Luis Borges


Of that knight with the sallow, dry Complexion and heroic bent, they guess That, always on the verge of adventure, He never sallied from his library. The precise chronicle of his urges And its tragic-comical reverses Was dreamed by him, not by Cervantes, It’s no more than a chronicle of dream. Such my fate too. I know there’s something Immortal and essential that I’ve buried Somewhere in that library of the past In which I read the history of the knight. The slow leaves recall a child who gravely Dreams vague things he cannot understand.

Translations into English by A. S. Kline

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