Jorge Luis Borges


My walking-stick, small change, key-ring, The docile lock and the belated Notes my few days left will grant No time to read, the cards, the table, A book, in its pages, that pressed Violet, the leavings of an afternoon Doubtless unforgettable, forgotten, The reddened mirror facing to the west Where burns illusory dawn. Many things, Files, sills, atlases, wine-glasses, nails, Which serve us, like unspeaking slaves, So blind and so mysteriously secret! They’ll long outlast our oblivion; And never know that we are gone.

Translations into English by A. S. Kline

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